


A Missing Piece

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bits of angst, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past suicide, Mycroft is in denial, Okay some angst, Past Domestic Violence, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is the man who thinks he has everything. His perfect job. His perfect home. Even a little brother (although he certainly ranks among the most annoying). Despite other people and their fascination with finding their soulmates, Mycroft has abandoned any idea of finding his 'Second', not after the traumatic death of the first person that was supposed to love him. And then Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade walks into his little brother's life, and Mycroft finds himself unnecessarily fascinated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for the lovely [rykoe-little-black-book](http://rykoe-little-black-book.tumblr.com/), as part of the Winter Mystrade exchange!

Mycroft Holmes tapped his long, elegant fingers together as he regarded the CCTV monitors in front of him. His curious hum drew his assistant’s attention, and she turned to look at him. He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. “Alie this week, sir,” she murmured, most of her attention back on the mobile she held in her hand.

“Find out all you can about the man Sherlock is talking to,” Mycroft instructed, leaning back in his chair.

“The silver haired one?” his assistant inquired politely.

“Yes.” Mycroft lifted a remote and turned off the monitor, turning back to the files on his desk. “Set up a meeting.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded her head and walked out of the room, the sharp noise of her heels on the floor the only sound Mycroft could hear. He allowed a faint smile to curve his lips - she was ever the good assistant, even if she did like to change her name from week to week. It was a useful skill, although he was forever calling her by the wrong name.

Pulling out the top file, he flicked it open, scanning it carefully and ensuring that there were no discrepancies with his memories. While he was careful to store information in the files he maintained in his mind, it was important to check for new developments. It wouldn’t serve him well to be caught using outdated information. That was a security risk, and he didn’t stand for those.

“Here you are, sir,” Alie said, one hand extending the file to him, the other still tapping away at her blackberry. Mycroft inclined his head slightly, setting the file he had been reading to the side and taking the new one from her. “You have an hour before your meeting with the Prime Minister, and then you have a meeting with the Russian delegate later tonight.”

“What about…” Mycroft paused.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“What about Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft finished.

“Tomorrow afternoon, in the normal spot.”

“Satisfactory,” Mycroft mused, flipping open the file.

“High praise from you, Sir,” she murmured, and although Mycroft lifted his head to examine her face intently, he could not see any of the sarcasm he had heard in the tone.

“Out with you.” He shooed her with a flick of his hand, although he could not deny a slight amusement She was cheeky, yes, but she was quite good at what she did. It was worth it to encounter the occasional sarcastic quip. It certainly lightened up the occasions he would work seventy two hours with only an hour or two of sleep. Not that he minded, not with so much work to do. Not when personal time simply meant time to reflect on his life. It was nothing that bore thinking about.

Mentally he shook himself out of his reverie, realized he was rubbing the back of his neck - an unconscious habit he had developed when he was a child. Although he had been able to break it in his adulthood, it still showed when he was tired. It was the third full day he had been awake, and although Mycroft’s mind was not tired in the slightest, his body was showing signs of extreme fatigue. Bothersome. Regardless, he directed his attention to the file, memorising every last bit.

_Gregory “Greg” Lestrade. 5’11”, 46 years of age. Married once, recently divorced. Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard. Brief history of alcoholism, family has several addicts, but appears to be sober. Last check up was clean, no known health problems nor psychological disorders._

“Perfectly normal,” Mycroft mused. “What are you doing with Sherlock, then?” He tapped his finger on the picture of the DI. Rather nice to look at, even Mycroft had to admit. Silver hair with remnants of the brown it had been originally, striking brown eyes, and a face that was handsome and enjoyable to gaze upon. He shut the file with a snap. No. None of that.

The marriage, however. That was certainly interesting. He allowed himself to open the file and checked a small box. The wife had not been his ‘soul mate’, then. Fascinating. It was rare the unbonded decided to pair up, for there were often consequences, but there had been occasions where such a thing had been done. Another quick browse confirmed his secondary thoughts. The DI was a Second, or a replacement for someone who had lost their soul mate. Someone’s second chance. Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck for a brief moment, feeling the slight grit of the expensive makeup that covered it. It was his reminder, his memory, of times long gone.

Of someone he wanted to forget forever.

“Sir?” The clacking of his assistant’s heels warned him just before she slipped into the room. “The Prime Minister is here.”

“Of course, of course,” Mycroft said smoothly, slipping the files that had been on his desk into a drawer and locking it discretely. “Come in.”

The meetings were almost unbearably boring, but Mycroft handled them with his normal efficacy, his polite, diplomatic smile glued on his face. The sun was poking into the horizon up on the upper floors when he at last bid the Russians farewell. “Four hours, sir,” his assistant told him, her eyes not leaving her Blackberry as she turned around and left, ensuring that the visitors left as they were told.

Four hours. He could sleep. Or. Mycroft reached over and grabbed the remote, clicking it on. The monitors flickered to life, and he surveyed them quickly until he caught sight of Sherlock. Sprawled out on his ratty sofa, obviously sleeping off a high. Mycroft’s heart clenched painfully, and he quickly turned the monitors off. It hurt, as much as he didn’t want it to. Sherlock had fallen so far from what he had been once. The cute, smiling, curly-haired boy that hugged his dog around his neck before running off with him for more adventures.

Enough. He stood, grabbing his umbrella and his mobile. A quick glance around his office ensured that everything sensitive was carefully stored in a locked compartment. “I am leaving,” he informed his assistant.

“Yes, sir.” Her eyes flickered to his face and then back to her mobile. “I shall send a car if you are not back before your meeting.”

“Satisfactory.” Mycroft checked his mobile briefly before slipping it into his pocket. He noted the date with a faint scowl. No wonder. It had been fifteen years since the Incident. Since he had learned to regard other humans with little but disdain. So instead, to clear his mind, he left the building, and walked.

It did not surprise him when he ended up in front of a small bookshop. He pushed open the door, ignoring the jingle of the bell as he did so, signifying to the merchant that he had a customer. “Hello,” Mycroft said pleasantly, his congenial half-smile on his face. It wasn’t real, and the merchant knew it, but he also understood, and that was a rare thing.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” he replied, setting down the rag he was using to polish the counter and running a hand through his short blonde hair. “What can I help you with today?”

“I only stopped in to see how you are faring,” Mycroft mused, seemingly startled by his own revelation. “How is your rehabilitation proceeding?”

“Good, thanks,” the man replied with a nod.

“And your living conditions are satisfactory?” Mycroft continued. Another nod. John Watson was a man of few words, especially when there was little to talk about. “If there is anything not to your liking, my assistant is at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” John said politely. He watched Mycroft with alert eyes. They were the eyes of a warrior who had seen combat. Who had fought through gunfire, tried to save the lives of countless other soldiers. They were eyes of the man who woke up every morning reliving those memories. He was perfect.

“How is Harriet?” Mycroft inquired, pulling a pocketwatch out of his waistcoat and checking the time. Less than an hour before he had to meet with the detective inspector. That left time for an update and for some brief research on exactly what Sherlock had been doing with the Met, other than nearly getting arrested or charged with possession again. So lost in his own thoughts that Mycroft nearly missed the faint sorrow that crossed John’s face.

“Good, thanks,” he said steadily, unwilling to betray any more.

“I am pleased to hear that.” Mycroft kept his tone pleasant, his face neutral. “Regardless, I must be on my way.”

“Always a pleasure to have you drop in,” John muttered, resuming his polishing.

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment and left the store, swinging his umbrella as he pulled out his mobile with the other hand and started texting. The first was a request for a car, the subsequent texts for updates on Sherlock from several of his informants. He thought for a moment and then sent for a status update on the DI as well. It was generally preferred to have too much information than not enough, for one could not be properly prepared for battle unless one knew absolutely everything about one’s opponent.

Within two minutes, a car slid up next to him and he had the requisite status updates in his inbox. He rather disliked having ‘free time’. Particularly when it came in the amount that he could go back to his office, but then he would have to leave again to attend another appointment. It seemed wasteful. “The warehouse,” he said curtly, tapping on the divider between himself and the driver. Quickly the car slid away from the curb.

A nap, Mycroft decided, ignoring that the backseat of his innocuous car was probably not the most suitable place for a nap. When he was approaching three days of no sleep, he took his naps where and when they were able to. Mycroft had polished the skill of catnaps, in which twenty minutes sleep snatched here and there could fuel him for three or more days. REM sleep, as ever, was preferable, but Mycroft had long mastered pushing his own boundaries. He had to.

A half hour later and Mycroft was awake and alert, standing in the warehouse and leaning lightly on his umbrella as he managed part of the free world on his mobile phone. His assistant had texted him some documents that needed perusing, determining which pieces of legislature needed a nudge in what was considered the polite direction.

“Who are you?” Mycroft started slightly. He hadn’t heard the other man approach, and had only dimly registered the sound of the car re-appearing with his intended prey in tow.

Pocketing his mobile, he lifted his head with a smile. “An interested party.”

“Interested in what?” Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade challenged, cocking his head to the side. Mycroft smirked. Oh, so this one thought he was smart. Pitiful.

“What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” he inquired mildly.

“Who’s asking?” the DI said sharply, pulling a mobile out of his pocket and rolling his eyes at it. He had received a text, Mycroft noted from the small flashing light he caught a glimpse of. Sherlock, perhaps? Or one of his subordinates?

“It is as I said. I’m an interested party,” Mycroft replied smoothly.

“Why kidnap me?” the DI asked. “Why not go to him directly?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m certain in your dealings with Sherlock you have noticed that he might not be the most - honest person about his own condition, nor does he tolerate inquiries as to his health and overall well being.” Mycroft tapped his finger on the handle of his brolly. Boring. They were all so boring. He was almost envious of Sherlock, with his chemical method of coping. Mycroft had no such means. “However, you are looking out for him, are you not?”

“A bit,” DI Lestrade replied evasively. “Look, I don’t care who you are. If you want to know that berk’s business, you ask him. Not me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a crime scene to get back to. I’ve got to get there before he does.”

Mycroft curved his lips up in a smile, although he was aware how frightening it often came across as. “My driver shall ensure that you reach your destination at the pace you require,” he said graciously.

“No, thank you.” DI Lestrade tipped his head in a mock farewell. “I can make it on my own.”

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgment, although he could not help the way his eyes followed the other man as he ran out of the warehouse. “Sir?” His assistant stood next to the open car door, her eyes as intent on her phone as ever. “Shall we be going?”

“Yes,” he allowed after a few moments. “Upgrade surveillance on Sherlock and this Detective Inspector.”

“Yes, sir.” Mycroft straightened up and slid into the car, his assistant shutting the door as soon as he was settled. He needed more data. There was something strange about the DI, something he could not puzzle out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates. It shouldn't be that long again. Unfortunately, as a graduate student, real life/classes/work has to take priority over writing.
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter!

Mycroft watched the DI enter the rather noisy cafe, striding to the register with a smile and ordering his normal drink. He took a sip of his own drink - coffee, two sugars, allowing for a bit of a sweet tooth - and stayed silent, watching the DI over the rim of the mug. The barista handed the coffee to Lestrade, who turned to grab some sugar. In doing so, he noticed Mycroft in the corner. Their eyes met, and Mycroft’s narrowed slightly at the way Lestrade’s movements stilled for a brief second. So he felt it too. Felt the tug, the spark - whatever the world chose to call it. Mycroft chose to call it inconvenient. Unnecessary. Unwanted.

All it had taken was a little bit longer. A closer look at the paperwork. A more thorough view of the security cameras. Then he had seen it. Seen it when Lestrade had bent over, checking out a corpse on the floor. Saw the mark on his neck, plain as day. Unlike last time, he wasn’t wearing a jacket, so Mycroft could see the bare skin. See the mark that matched his. Lestrade had been reassigned to him. Had become his Second. His Soul Mate.

Unlike Mycroft, who hid his mark with carefully applied makeup, the DI bared his for all to see. He probably didn’t think much of it. Seconds had bare skin, until they were chosen, and then the mark appeared on their neck. Those that didn’t hide, those that showed everything - Mycroft curled his lips slightly in disdain. The Firsts were seen as outgoing, congenial. Open and warm. The Seconds who didn’t hide were seen as desperate. Wanting. A few just didn’t care. They didn’t have the silvery sheen that made it so difficult for Firsts to hide - theirs were plainer, darker against their skin, like a normal birthmark. Mycroft hid his for political reasons. Safety. He didn’t want anyone else to have that power over him.

Mycroft looked away, pretended not to notice as Lestrade walked over and sank into the seat. “You again.” The voice wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t openly hostile, either. Interesting. “What do you want?”

“I was merely enjoying my coffee, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly.

“And Sherlock is the Tooth Fairy. Do you want to try that again?” The DI leaned back in his chair, his expression conveying his skepticism rather blatantly.

“I meant what I said,” Mycroft answered simply. “This is merely a coincidence.”

Lestrade sighed. “Alright. I’ll inform Sherlock that he is now required to wear a tutu if he wants on my crime scenes.”

“No doubt he will be thrilled with such a proclamation,” Mycroft muttered sarcastically. He scowled inwardly at his tone, and took a sip of the coffee.

“You’re his brother?” Lestrade cocked his head to the side. It was a guess, that much was obvious from the tone, but it was not a leap that Mycroft had expected from the other man.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just say so, then?” Lestrade asked, his tone a modicum more polite.

“Sherlock would be less than pleased at the thought of me inquiring as to his health, especially in his current state.” Mycroft couldn’t stop the slight, worried frown that crossed his lips, a lingering reaction to thinking about Sherlock’s drug habit. When he refocused, he resumed eye contact, noting the shift in the DI’s expression. Pity. Understanding, with a tinge of warmth. It was far lighter than the scorn he had been given, minutes ago.

“Yeah, that I can understand.” Lestrade glanced at his watch, grimaced, and drank half his coffee in one gulp. “I have to run. Call me and we can set up a time to chat about Sherlock. No kidnapping, mind you. I have too much paperwork.”

Mycroft blinked. And blinked again. The other man was agreeing? “I can offer a substantial sum -” he started.

“No.” Lestrade cut him off, gathering his coat, digging through his pockets, searching for something. “I don’t want anything. Look, it’s obvious that you care, and Sherlock is Sherlock. I know I said I wouldn’t tell you anything, but you’re his older brother.” Lestrade continued staring at him like that should mean something to Mycroft.

In a way, it did. It brought back memories, feelings, flashes. Of times when Sherlock, all bright-eyed and curly haired, would sit in Mycroft’s lap, seeking reassurance, security, while Mycroft would spin tales of what their life would be, when they could have a family of their own. Away from the family that did not love them. Did not need them. When the family dog passed away when Sherlock was four, Mycroft held him, like an older brother should. He stood by Sherlock’s side, twelve years later, when he lost his own dog. Sherlock was older, then, and didn’t show as much emotion, but he gripped Mycroft’s arm in wordless thanks.

And then He had entered Mycroft’s life and everything that had been promised fell apart.

“Mr. Holmes?” The DI’s voice broke him out of his reverie, and Mycroft’s eyes snapped to his face.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said stiffly. He stood, extending his hand for Lestrade to shake. The DI eyed him warily, but extended his own. The handshake was brief, but still too long. Lestrade’s hand was warm and comfortable, his palm fitting perfectly into Mycroft’s. He hated it. “I shall contact you soon, to arrange a meeting.”

“I look forward to it,” Lestrade replied, only the barest hint of sarcasm underlying his tone. Then he gathered his things, drank the last of his coffee, tossed it in the bin, and went out the door. Mycroft watched him go.

It was three days before Mycroft rang the Detective Inspector. He was busy, after all. An entire country counted on him to keep it tidy, in line. He couldn’t be expected to drop everything and make a simple phone call. His to do list was just too long. So when he finally ran out of excuses, he sat in his office, staring at the desk phone. There was nothing to it. Lestrade was nothing special, was just another lackey that had eyes on Sherlock.

There was absolutely nothing that made him any different than anyone else.

Mycroft’s stomach did an unnecessary flip when he heard the DI’s voice. “Hello?” Lestrade sounded tired. Harried. Like someone had been shouting at him all day and all he wanted was for it to stop and for the world to quit moving for one moment.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sounded stiff, like starched cotton. He grimaced. The very least he could do was sound warm and personable. Or a vague semblance thereof.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft couldn’t see him, but could imagine him leaning back in the chair, tucking the phone to his ear. Could hear the faint smile in his voice. Smile? Was he smiling? Mycroft wished he had a camera in Lestrade’s office. He obviously needed to assess whether or not the police man had gone mad. “How can I help you?”

“I am calling to schedule the aforementioned meeting to discuss Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said icily. Distance. He wasn’t going to let him any closer than he had to. Mentally he wrestled control back from the part of him that wanted to get to know the DI, that wanted to be kind, friendly - make Lestrade like him. That was absurd. It was unacceptable. Closing his eyes briefly, he shed his insecurities, slid into the politician persona he had perfected. “I am free tomorrow afternoon, Wednesday evening, or Saturday.”

There was faint scrabbling noises, like Lestrade was moving paper around, grabbing his diary, flipping it open to the correct page. “Wednesday evening looks good for me,” he said easily. “About 7?”

“That shall be satisfactory. I shall have my driver pick you up.” He heard Lestrade start to protest, and shook his head. “I do insist.”

“Well, alright,” Lestrade said, long-suffering, like he was used to fighting losing battles with a Holmes. Mycroft realized with faint amusement that he likely was, as Sherlock never gave up without a fight. No. Mycroft frowned at the phone. He was not supposed to be amused. He was not supposed to be smiling slightly. None of that.

Without saying good-bye, he hung up the phone. Stared at it. Realized his hands were shaking. That he had been holding his breath. His cheeks were flushed. He felt too warm. Part of him wanted to grab the phone, dial the DI’s number again, and listen to his lovely, soothing voice. No. He slammed the phone for good measure, drawing the attention of his assistant, who poked her head in the door. “Sir?”

“Pencil in a meeting with the DI. Seven PM, Wednesday night.” Mycroft’s voice was tight and controlled. Alie - Anthea this week, apparently - merely nodded and shut the door, leaving him to his devices. He placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. Trying to shut it all out. Everything. Delete all extraneous pieces of information regarding the Detective Inspector. He regretted ever learning about his symbol. Learning who he was.

It brought back memories of Jack. Of the way he would lean into Mycroft’s side. Kiss his head, Ruffle Sherlock’s curls, bring that bright grin to his face. The warmth and security he provided. The first time, after years of uncertainty, that Mycroft had felt safe. Wanted. Like he mattered. Then the words had turned cruel, slowly but surely. What had been endearments quickly turned less affectionate. Jack had grown bitter. Hateful. Mycroft had taken all of it, because that was what he did.

And then Mycroft had came home from work, just as a junior member of the government, and discovered Jack - Him, Mycroft dubbed the man in question - stretched out on the bed. A gun in his hand. A note on the nightstand. Mycroft was still standing there, eyes wide with shock, when Sherlock found him. Then everything had fallen apart.

Mentally he shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs, the old memories. He had to focus. Carefully he unlocked his top drawer, pulling out the confidential files contained within. There was plenty to do before Wednesday. Hopefully enough to distract him from what lay ahead. Settling back in his chair, he read.

Wednesday rolled around far too soon. Mycroft had gotten four hours of sleep the night before (the most in two weeks), and felt relatively well rested. However, the country had been unusually obedient, and there was little for him to do in terms of busywork. He did not even have any meetings scheduled until Thursday afternoon and all preparation had been done earlier in the afternoon. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Time was moving agonizingly slow.

He smoothed his lapels, readjusted his cuffs, fidgeted with his cufflinks. Leaned backward in his chair, picked up the remote, and pushed the button, watching the monitors flicker to life. He zoomed in on one. It was a crime scene, and Sherlock was arguing with the DI - Lestrade, Mycroft reminded himself. The long, spindly limbs were flying about as he shouted and rolled his eyes and spoke in what Mycroft could imagine was an exaggerated, sarcastic tone.

Sherlock looked - marginally healthier. He didn’t look high. His pupils were normal size, and although he jerked about, it wasn’t as sharp as it was when he was intoxicated. Lestrade stood his ground, rolling his eyes in response and trying to placate Mycroft’s irritated younger brother. They were gesturing over a body in front of them, Sherlock obviously agitated over something the DI had missed. Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his eyes sweeping the scene. Based on posture, movement, and what he could read from their lips, he guessed that Sherlock had solved the case and Lestrade was arguing with him to ensure he explained some of the more nebulous findings. Sherlock had not yet perfected his clarity when explaining deductions, not to normal people

He watched as Sherlock stormed off, leaving Lestrade behind. One monitor was set to track Sherlock’s movements, but his eyes did not leave the crime scene. He stood, and walked closer to it, watching the silver-haired man give orders to his team. Lestrade wasn’t harsh, he wasn’t domineering. He was the right mixture of order and chaos, control and disarray. The DI seemed to have a knack for knowing who to tell what, in order to get everyone to obey and work cohesively.

Mycroft didn’t realize he was touching the monitor until he caught sight of his fingers splayed out against the screen, as if he could feel Lestrade’s face through the pixels, through the LCD lights. It was a picture of what could be, if Mycroft wanted to reach out and take it. Something within his grasp. Happiness. He let out his breath, a slight sigh. It wasn’t worth it. It never was. “Sir?” Anthea’s voice was quiet, unobtrusive, and Mycroft jerked his hand back as if he had been burned.

“Yes?” He turned slightly to look at her, his face sharp, guarded.

Her eyes flickered to the clock, and Mycroft’s gaze followed. He had not realized how long he had been watching the CCTV. “It is time for you to leave for your meeting with the Detective Inspector,” she said simply.

“Yes, alright.” Mycroft cleaned off his desk, locked up what needed to be taken care of, and followed her out of his office.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit. I've got a regular update schedule mapped out. We'll see how I do. School comes first, as usual.
> 
> Enjoy!

There certainly weren’t butterflies in Mycroft’s stomach as he sat in the back of the car on the way to retrieve the Detective inspector from New Scotland Yard. He smoothed down his suit jacket and sat his umbrella to the side. A glance out the window showed him he had approximately five minutes until his driver was due to pick up the DI. Until the DI would slide in the door, would sit there, stare at him, and attempt to make conversation.

Mycroft pulled his phone out and checked his email, scrolling through a few documents that had arrived in his inbox since he had left his office. He was so absorbed in one particular document detailing a minor happening in a minor country of no particular importance that he didn’t notice that the DI was in the car until he spoke. “Something important?” Lestrade inquired mildly, glancing at Mycroft.

It was only impeccable self control that kept Mycroft from nearly jumping out of his skin. He closed the document, locked his phone, and slid it back into his pocket. Inwardly he damned Lestrade in multiple ways. That was the downside of their bond, of the immediate, unnatural comfort that existed between a bonded pair. The DI did not register as a threat, and Mycroft felt at ease around him. It was problematic.

“Nothing of significance,” Mycroft answered stiffly, crossing his leg, ankle over knee, and setting the brolly on his lap as some sort of defense mechanism. There was really little it could do, but he felt better with it in his hands.

“Right,” Lestrade said, the vague amusement in his voice making Mycroft more apprehensive than he already was. “Where are we going?” he asked nonchalantly.

“A small, local place,” Mycroft said absently, staring straight ahead. His body was tense, so tight that he felt like he might snap. The car was suddenly too small. He needed to get out, get away. “I know the owners, and the cuisine is exceptional.”

“Oh good,” Lestrade said, sounding relieved. Mycroft glanced briefly over at him, registering the relieved smile on his face. He quickly regretted it, for his stomach was now determined to twist itself in knots. Mycroft wasn’t nervous. That was absurd. It was merely a work meeting, nothing more. The car could not arrive at its destination soon enough.

Once it pulled up to the pavement, Mycroft got out, hooking the umbrella on his arm and nodding slightly to Anthea in the front seat. Lestrade got out second, standing next to him. “So,” Lestrade said, and Mycroft saw him examining him out of the corner of his eyes. “Should we go in?”

“After you.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly, gesturing to indicate for Lestrade to go ahead of him. Which was a mistake. Lestrade was wearing neatly-fitted black slacks and a maroon button-up, both of which accentuated the figure of his body quite nicely. Especially his bum. Mycroft swallowed and followed the DI into the restaurant.

The waiter quickly led them back to a small nook, allowing Mycroft to see the entire dining room at one time. Both men quickly settled into their chairs, Lestrade nodding his thanks to the waiter who took Mycroft’s wine order and scurried off. “They know you here,” the DI commented, picking up the menu and scanning it. “Come here often?”

Mycroft considered the potential implications of such words, considered what Lestrade might possibly be asking. “I frequent this particular restaurant on occasion,” he answered.

“Alright,” Lestrade said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. The waiter came by with the wine, and Mycroft sipped it, tasting it to ensure it was to his liking, before allowing both glasses to be poured. Both men ordered, and the waiter was off again.

“How did you meet Sherlock?” Mycroft steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them, watching Lestrade intently.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his gaze skeptical. “I’m sure you already know.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “That is a possibility. Regardless, I would prefer to hear your interpretation of the situation.”

“Right, then,” Lestrade said, bemused. “My interpretation of the situation. Sherlock came onto one of my crime scenes, high as a kite, and gave us the murderer, right then and there. Crazy berk, but he was right.” The DI shrugged. “I took a chance, with him, and checked out his leads. Told him as long as he was clean, I can give him work. Can’t pay him, mind you, but it’s something.”

“How long have you been working with him?” Mycroft inquired. His full attention was on the DI, searching for any minute sign of hatred, of irritation. Any sign that he was unfit to work with Sherlock or that Sherlock was in any risk of danger under his supervision.

“Couple months,” Lestrade said after a few moments of thought. “He’s been clean about half the time. I’ve had to kick him off the occasional crime scene, which I’m sure he hates, and about two thirds of my crew hate him, but it’s worth it.”

“So you can take credit for his work, then?” Mycroft straightened his posture, eyes narrow and speculative as he lifted the wine glass to his lips and took a sip. Anger and irritation flashed across the DI’s face. Mycroft had hit a nerve.

“Look, if you’re here because you think I’m using Sherlock, then you’re a bloody fool,” Lestrade snapped, anger simmering just under his surface. Mycroft ignored the vague flash of fear. It was too similar to Him, to Jack, and for a moment, he was afraid. “Sherlock…” Lestrade took a deep breath, his eyes closed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he said, using a hand to punctuate his words. “Sherlock allows us to solve crimes that would go unsolved otherwise, right?” Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “That’s what I care about,” Lestrade said firmly. “I don’t care who gets the credit. Sherlock won’t take it. I’d give it to him if I could. I want to be able to find out who hurt these people so that those bastards can pay for their crimes. That’s what matters.”

Mycroft took another drink of the wine, watching Lestrade intently. The other man had calmed significantly, but Mycroft could read his irritation in the subtle shift of his body, the way his fingers tapped against the table, the slight motions his hand made as he sipped his wine. Their meals came, and Mycroft glanced down at his salad before looking over at Lestrade’s chicken parma. At least the food was a way to avoid conversation for a few moments longer.

“Sherlock said you’re dangerous,” Lestrade remarked, about halfway through his chicken.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, surprised. “He has been known to exaggerate,” he commented, delicately taking another bite of his salad.

“Told me to tell you not to start a war,” Lestrade continued, taking a bite of his chicken. “Even warned me not to come tonight.”

Mycroft stilled his fork, lifting his gaze to meet Lestrade’s. “Did he.”

“Said getting involved with you was trouble.” Lestrade’s eyes were steady, curious. “Any idea what he meant by that, Mr. Holmes?”

Damn Sherlock. Mycroft fought a scowl. He knew, then, that Lestrade was his Second. Knew what their connection was. “I have no idea what Sherlock was going on about,” Mycroft said, taking another sip of his wine.

“Oh, of course.” Lestrade briefly smiled and focused back upon his food. Mycroft watched him intently for a few moments, studying the nonchalant way that he ate. He did not believe Mycroft, not one word, but was polite enough to not mention it. Doubtless he would be asking Sherlock more questions. Mycroft had to head that off, distract the DI with something else.

“I must request your assistance, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said, fingers linking so he could rest his chin upon them. “I have a sensitive matter that concerns Sherlock that he must not know I am involved in.”

“Is it legal?” Lestrade asked suspiciously. “And please, call me Greg.”

“Greg.” The name felt right on Mycroft’s lips, and his stomach flipped pleasantly. He ignored it. “You may call me Mycroft.”

“Honoured,” Greg replied with a hint of sarcasm. He seemed more amused than annoyed.

“I know who Sherlock’s soul mate is.” Greg’s eyes widened at Mycroft’s words, and for a moment, Mycroft had to wonder what it was like, in Greg’s shoes. To be considered a second-class citizen, only wanted when someone else had a need for him. To look for the person that would complete him, would make his life whole, only to never find him, because he did not want to be found. It felt like he had been stabbed, realizing what he was doing to the other man, and for a single second Mycroft regretted his choice. Quickly he shoved aside those emotions, that thought. He had to focus.

“He was a medic in Afghanistan when I found him,” Mycroft stated. “I brought him home and he has been in my employ since.”

“Why haven’t you told Sherlock?” Greg inquired. He seemed to have finished his meal. Mycroft unlinked his hands, leaned back in his chair.

“Could you imagine Sherlock’s reaction to my introducing his partner to him?” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt it would be a positive one. Especially if he knew I had a role in his retrieval.”

Greg nodded in agreement. “He would probably reject her just because he could,” he mused.

“Him,” Mycroft corrected.

“Him, sorry.” Greg offered an apologetic smile. “What do you need me for?”

“You have the Kensington case, do you not?” Mycroft’s gaze was intent, gauging Greg’s expression, his motivation. Everything that showed up on his face, Mycroft took note of. It was research, of course. Nothing more. He needed to understand this man in order to assess his impact upon Sherlock.

“Yeah, that’s mine,” Greg said with a nod. “Having a hard time with it, though.” He grimaced. “The army base is not cooperating.”

“Allow him to consult with you on the crime,” Mycroft said evenly. “Allow Sherlock to work with him. His knowledge of the military and its politics will be invaluable to you.”

“That’s it?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft and Greg studied each other. A part of Mycroft wondered what the DI was looking for, what he was measuring. What was going through his head. What he thought of Mycroft, of their discussion.

“Alright, then,” Greg agreed. “Send him my way tomorrow, and I’ll call Sherlock in.”

“Shall I escort him or would you prefer him come unaccompanied? His name is John Watson. He works at a small bookstore, off of Baker Street.” Mycroft ignored the way Greg’s smile made his heart race, the way the genuinely happy expression on his face made Mycroft want to smile back. It was all inconsequential. Greg was a work contact, nothing more. He was simply a link to Sherlock. No matter what society told him, there was nothing between them.

“Drop him off at the Yard tomorrow around noon, if you can,” Greg said after a few moments of thought.

“Certainly.” Mycroft looked at his food, and then at him. “Unfortunately, I believe my available time has come to an end. Is that amenable?”

“What?” Greg blinked, momentarily confused. “Oh, yeah, I’m done.” He pushed back his chair and stood, allowing Mycroft to lead the way out of the restaurant. “Don’t you need to pay?”

“It has already been taken care of,” Mycroft assured him, heading towards the black car with the open door. He slid inside, brolly in hand, and Greg sat next to him. He was too close and too far at the same time. Automatically Mycroft crossed his leg, ankle over knee, and placed the umbrella on his lap, the same posture as before. It created distance. It protected him. The car slid away from the pavement and the car fell quiet.

“Will we be doing this again?” Greg asked conversationally. “The talking about Sherlock bit, at least.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied absently. “I am quite interested in your perceptions of his behaviour.”

Greg hummed his agreement, and the two fell silent. It was a comfortable silence, as much as Mycroft hated to admit it. It felt like he had known Greg for years, like there was a level of familiarity that should not exist but did. He wanted to scoot closer. Touch him. Kiss him. Take him home. But it was wrong, all of it was wrong. He couldn’t. That would be risking something that he was not willing to give up, not again.

The car stopped to allow Greg to get out at his flat. “Good night, Mycroft,” Greg said, turning one last time to offer Mycroft a smile.

“Good night, Greg,” Mycroft replied stiffly. His breathing was too fast, his heart thumping in his chest. He felt dizzy. Breathless. His body felt like it was on fire, nerves prickling, overloaded with sensation, and the other man was simply sitting next to him. He wanted to pull Greg closer, kiss him, claim him. But he couldn’t. Greg nodded, once, and then got out of the car, carefully closing the door behind him.

Mycroft inhaled sharply. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his lips, and the car continued on its way home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Focusing more on this and the other WME piece, so updates (in theory) will be as often as once a week. That's the goal, anyway.

Mycroft sprawled on the sofa, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a full glass in his hand. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then downed what was his second glass. It was a rubbish wine, really, but Mycroft didn’t really care.  
  
 _Their first meeting goes better than Mycroft expects. Sherlock is startled, at first. He immediately knows who John is and what he means to him. He feels the connection that sizzles under his skin and marks John as His. John feels it too, Mycroft knows, but his face does not move at all. He is like an impenetrable wall. A sturdy soldier. They shake hands, collegial, and Sherlock lingers._  
  
 _Greg is watching them, and there is something so beautifully sad on his face that Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t. He can’t. It is too dangerous._  
  
 _Mycroft turns his attention back to his brother, and smiles. There is banter, and conversation, and for the first time in years, Mycroft sees a genuine smile on Sherlock’s face._  
  
He refilled the glass again, watching the wine fill it up. This time he sipped it, first, letting the taste of the wine roll around his tongue. The first meeting had gone well. John had accepted Sherlock, had agreed when Sherlock offered him the use of a spare room. Mycroft sighed, relieved. Sherlock was going to be okay.  
  
 _Two months later Sherlock is with John. They are sitting in Baker Street after a crime - or rather, John is sitting and Sherlock is sprawled over the sofa. He is obviously bored, and is threatening to shoot the wall with John’s gun. John frowns at him, forehead crinkling, but there is affection there, even though nothing is said._ _Mycroft smiles. Sherlock is happy._  
  
The wine dulled his recollection, and he could picture Jack’s face - His face - without wanting to vomit. He finished the glass of wine, poured more. Rinse and repeat. The wine made everything fuzzy, and his head swam. It was nice, though. He forgot things, that way. He didn’t have to remember. Didn’t have to pretend he was okay, when he knew he wasn’t. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the mark there, and drank some more wine.  
  
 _Six months. They have just come home from a case, and Sherlock is high off of the adrenaline. John is next to him, laughing, and Sherlock smiles. Mycroft tries to smile, tries to be happy, but he cannot. He swallows, wishes it away, and turns back to his work._  
  
Mycroft’s stomach lurched unpleasantly. This time, it took more concentration, wielding the bottle. He ignored the splotches of wine on the table. He could clean it later.  
  
 _John straightens, and Sherlock is watching him. Mycroft is not there, but even through the screen he can see the tension between them. He can see the conflict in Sherlock’s eyes, the want, the worry. He can see the answering emotions in John, see the calmness, the caring._  
  
Mycroft finished the first bottle and grabbed the second. Anything to make it stop.  
  
 _Sherlock stands closer, and it is John that makes the first move. Mycroft sees Sherlock hesitate, and then relax into John's touch. Sherlock trusts John. He loves him. Mycroft turns off the CCTV, feeling sick._  
  
Why was he so miserable? Mycroft glared at the bottle as if it was its fault. It probably was. He stared at the label for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the small, fancy letters. It made his stomach do flips, so he stopped. Sighing, he tipped his head back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He lifted his head slightly to drink from the glass. Spilling was unseemly. He was far too dignified for that. Or something.  
  
Everything had happened so fast, long ago. It had gone from good to bad so quickly. One moment Jack had been the perfect partner, and the next - he wasn’t. It had taken six months for his facade to fall, for the person Mycroft loved to fall away, and it was Mycroft’s fault. Everything was his fault. Sherlock, though. Mycroft closed his eyes, pictured his brother with John, the careful, easy comfort they had spent six months cultivating. Sherlock had escaped.  
  
Mycroft, however - he wasn’t going anywhere. He was a coward and Greg didn’t deserve him and he didn’t deserve Greg and Mycroft needed to inform him of that. Or something. It took a while, but eventually Mycroft sent a coherent text to his assistant demanding a car. He had a good staff. They didn’t ask questions.  
  
Soon Anthea - Alie - Alyssa - whatever her name was - was at the door, lifting her eyebrow when she looked at him. “Do you need help, Sir?” she inquired mildly.  
  
“No,” Mycroft told her, dignified. He stood with minimal wobbling, leaving the mostly-empty second bottle on the table. Greg. He was going to go see Greg, and tell him it was all of his fault, and - something. Something else that he could figure out later. He just knew that if he talked to Greg, maybe some of the hurt would go away, and things would be better.  
  
It was a treacherous walk to the car, but he managed, sliding in without making any noise even when he banged his foot on the door frame. “Had some to drink, did you?” Anthea-Alie-Alyssa asked as she slid in next to him.  
  
“I do not think you have permission to do that.” Mycroft scowled at her. He was slurring his words slightly, but was otherwise understandable. Impressive. He gave himself a mental pat on the back.  
  
“Yes, Sir.” She just looked amused, and Mycroft ignored her. It took him a good thirty seconds to realize the car wasn’t moving.  
  
“Why aren’t we going anywhere?” he demanded.  
  
“Sir, you haven’t told the driver where you want to go,” Triple-A pointed out politely.  
  
Oh. Mycroft contemplated this for as long as he could. “The - the - the - house,” he finished.  
  
“Helpful.” Triple-A leaned over, checked his phone, and then rattled off an address. “You would like the Detective Inspector’s residence, would you not?”  
  
Mycroft gave her his best impression of a don’t-be-stupid-I-already-knew-that look, and then scrabbled to grab something once the car started moving. “What - what are you doing in the car?” he asked suspiciously.  
  
“Merely ensuring that your safety is not compromised, Sir.” She gave him a blithe smile.  
  
Mycroft decided that was an acceptable answer. He sat mutely in the car the rest of the trip. Part of him wished he had brought a bottle of wine with him. The world wasn’t dull enough, yet. Everything was still too bright and he just wanted it to all go away. Wordlessly his assistant offered him some water. He took it, although he didn’t like how it felt, sliding over his tongue and down his throat. Too much like water.  
  
The car slid to a stop, and Mycroft stepped unsteadily out onto the pavement. Triple-A glanced at him, but stayed inside, and he was thankful. “Your mobile is in your pocket, Sir. Text when you need a ride.” The door shut and the car drove off, leaving Mycroft standing there. He frowned at the spot where the car had been, resigned, and turned around, realizing that he didn’t exactly know which flat was the DI’s.  
  
That was mildly problematic.  
  
He stared curiously at the building, distracted by the street lights. They were so shiny. “Mycroft?” Greg’s surprised voice echoed annoyingly loud. Mycroft frowned at the street lamp.  
  
“What?” He tilted his head to the side. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Greg stepped down the stairs, coming closer. “I live here,” he said patiently.  
  
Oh, right. Mycroft remembered. Something. Whatever it was, it had to do with Greg. Greg turned to scan the street, presumably looking for Mycroft’s normal car. Mycroft caught sight of the mark on his neck. Oh. His stomach flipped and he lurched, nearly stumbling and falling. No. He couldn’t. “No.”  
  
“No what?” Greg inquired.  
  
Mycroft swiveled and almost tipped over his long, long legs. Dangerous things. “What am I doing here?”  
  
“I’m not quite sure,” the DI said, and this time he caught Mycroft before he could fall. Greg inhaled sharply, and Mycroft felt the ghost of a hand pass over his neck. Mycroft frowned, tilting his head at the pavement as if it would tell him the answer. That was Bad, something was Bad, but he couldn’t figure out why. Couldn’t remember why. Oh well. He would figure it out later. he stepped over to help Mycroft stand. Mycroft swallowed thickly as Greg’s hand slid over his back so that Greg could keep him standing. He felt warm, too warm. Tense. He needed, he wanted. But he couldn’t. “Let’s go inside,” Greg murmured, and slowly he helped Mycroft up and into his apartment.   
  
They stood just inside Greg’s flat for a while, Greg’s arm supporting Mycroft and Mycroft just standing there, staring at Greg’s flat. His deductions were rubbish when he was drunk. There was a chair-thing, and a shiny thing, and something that looked like maybe it held a fork? He wasn’t really sure. The shiny thing was rather distracting, and Mycroft lost at least a minute just staring at it.  
  
“Do you need the sofa?” Greg’s voice was tense, and Mycroft was momentarily drawn to him. Greg couldn’t be sad, no. That was Bad. He didn’t know why, but it was.  
  
Mycroft tried to untangle himself from Greg and failed, Greg having to prop him up when he nearly fell backwards. They were facing each other, now, their faces too close. Mycroft swallowed again. No. He couldn’t. “I can’t,” he told Greg, his voice plaintive. “I can’t.”  
  
Greg shifted, stabilising them. He was close, so close, and all Mycroft wanted was to kiss him. “You can’t? he asked, his voice soft, cautious.  
  
Mycroft hesitated, and he was staring at Greg, mere centimetres away. There was honesty and a small bit of fear and anticipation and kindness and he couldn’t. Not anymore. Mycroft leaned down, slowly, and kissed Greg. It was chaste, at first, Greg’s arms steadying Mycroft, but the kiss quickly turned heated. Mycroft felt like he was drowning, like he was whole again. Like a part of him that had been missing so long was back.  
  
Greg was the one who broke the kiss, pulling back and burying his head in Mycroft’s shoulder. “Stop,” he breathed.  
  
“What?” Mycroft frowned. He had been having a good time. Why stop? No.  
  
“Mycroft, you’re drunk,” Greg said, lifting his head. “You’re drunk, and I don’t think you know what you’re doing.” He lifted a hand, cupped Mycroft’s face, stroked his cheek with a thumb.  
  
“Of course I know what I’m doing.” Mycroft scowled, swayed unsteadily. Of course he did. He was - oh no. No. He stared at Greg. “What?”  
  
“Here, let’s get you set up on the sofa,” Greg murmured, shifting so that he could escort Mycroft until he was sitting on the sofa. “Would you like some tea?”  
  
Mycroft realized that somehow Anthea-Alie-Alyssa had let him out of the house and left him on the pavement in his pyjamas, and was rather put out by that fact. He lifted up his feet and tucked them up next to him. At least he would be comfortable. “Yes.” The impact of the two full bottles was finally hitting him, and he was starting to doze off, become drowsy. Greg pressed a mug of tea into his hands, and sat near him. Mycroft liked that he stayed close. He was near enough that Mycroft could see him, if he wished, but not too close that Mycroft felt like he was being crowded. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Greg said, and Mycroft noticed that he had his own mug. They sat in silence, and Mycroft found it oddly comfortable. “Do you take anything for hangovers, in the morning?”  
  
“The - the - the.” Mycroft struggled with saying the word. It was beyond his vocabulary, after nearly two bottles of wine. “Yes.”  
  
“Paracetamol?” Greg suggested.  
  
“That.” Mycroft nodded gratefully, and he sighed at his mug. “You,” he told it, mournful.  
  
“I’m pretty sure that mug didn’t do anything to you,” Greg said, chuckling.  
  
“Of course it did,” Mycroft told him, mildly offended. Greg shook his head, a smile on his lips. Mycroft watched him as he finished drinking, nodding when Greg came over and took the mug out of his hands.  
  
“I’ll take the offending mug out of your sight.” Greg smiled, walking into the kitchen and cleaning the mugs.  
  
“It’s late,” Mycroft mused, still curled in a ball on the sofa.  
  
“It’s not going to hurt you if you lay down. It’s long enough for you, but just barely.” Greg re-appeared in the main room, rummaging through a nearby cupboard. “Here’s a blanket, if you want it. Gets chilly here, at night.” He tossed it to Mycroft.  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, distracted by the texture of the fabric. It was soft and plushy. Maybe Greg wouldn’t miss it if Mycroft took it home. He didn’t have one of those.  
  
Greg walked over, hesitated, and then grasped Mycroft’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Even Mycroft was not drunk enough to mistake it for anything else. “Good night, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft slowly stretched out over the sofa, pleased that it wasn’t too small for his height. “Night, Greg.” The words felt strange on his tongue, clumsy, and he was starting to realize that that much alcohol on a near-empty stomach was probably a bad idea, but he would worry about that later. He heard Greg step into his bedroom and close the door. “Oh, no,” he murmured to himself, settling so that he was comfortable. Mycroft curled the blanket closer around himself, and then slipped off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Ramping up to finals here, so might be another delay before the next chapter (mostly because I have to write a 20-odd page paper in the next 10 days).
> 
> Enjoy!

Mycroft didn’t remember waking up and taking the pills Greg offered to him. He didn’t remember taking a shiny, giant glass of water and drinking it as fast as he could. Vaguely he remembered the sensation of the blanket being tucked around him as he sprawled back out on the sofa and fell back asleep. The blanket was as soft as he remembered. That was nice.

It was the pounding in his head that brought him back to consciousness a second time. A dull thud that felt like a shockwave of pain, thrumming in his skull. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the (thankfully dim) room. He glared at the ceiling. That wasn’t his ceiling. It was someone else’s ceiling. Whose ceiling was it? Where was he? How had he gotten there?

“Finally awake?” Greg’s voice was low, but it still send waves of pain through Mycroft’s head. No. His stomach lurched unpleasantly, and he became suddenly aware of waves of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. Bathroom. He needed a bathroom.

Greg must have seen it in his face, because he slid an arm under Mycroft’s shoulders, slowly urging him into a sitting position. “Let’s get you to the bathroom,” Greg murmured. Mycroft’s head spun, his stomach protested, his head pounded. He stared at Greg as if he was something indecipherable. What? His brain felt fuzzy. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what was.

“I don’t feel so good,” Mycroft mumbled. His tongue felt clumsy and he leaned into Greg’s touch, liking how close the DI was. Greg urged him up and helped Mycroft stumble towards the bathroom. Mycroft tried to close his eyes, tried to fight the nausea, but having his eyes closed was terrifying. He felt disconnected, like he was floating. The way his stomach was performing acrobatics wasn’t helping.

“Almost there,” Greg said, careful to keep his voice low. He kicked open the door to the bathroom. Mycroft lurched inside, barely making it to the toilet before his head spun and he vomited. A hand ghosted over his neck before settling on his back, rubbing gently, comforting, before he retched again. He groaned.

The hand disappeared and Mycroft protested with some embarrassingly incoherent noise, his eyes closed and his head pounding incessantly. The toilet made a splashing sound as Greg flushed it, but Mycroft was too nauseous to react. “Don’t go,” he croaked. Greg needed to stay. Mycroft didn’t know why, but it was important.

Greg hesitated, and stroked Mycroft’s back briefly. “I’m just going to get some water. I’ll be right back.”

Okay. Mycroft could deal with that. Greg patted his back gently and then left, leaving Mycroft sitting on the cool floor. He rested his forehead against the bowl, opening his eyes to stare intently at the porcelain and trying to calm the nausea in order to remember what happened the night before. Greg’s. He had to be at Greg’s. That would explain why Greg was there, why Greg had to help him to the bathroom, and was fetching him water. How had he ended up at Greg’s? Why?

It was oddly like thinking through cotton wool and Mycroft did not like it one bit. Not that he wasn’t used to it - he was - but that didn’t make it any less irritating. He forced the nausea out of his mind, tried to calm the pounding, and make himself think. Why was he at Greg’s? He remembered drinking, getting up, stumbling into the car with Anthea ensuring that he didn’t kill himself. Then Greg had come down, had seen him, and caught him when he - oh no. Oh no no no. Mycroft swallowed, his stomach rebelling. No. Greg had seen it. He knew. No. That was bad, it was all bad, but why?

Mycroft retched, his stomach empty of anything to throw up. The dry heaves were vicious, and he clenched his eyes shut, fear and humiliation throwing his body over the edge. Tears slid out of the corner of his eyes. Next he had gone up to Greg’s flat, gone inside, a bit of chatter, and then…

Oh. No.

He clenched the sides of the toilet bowl. Then he had kissed Greg. Red alarms were flashing in his head, everything was Wrong, everything was Bad, and Mycroft didn’t have the faintest idea why. Kissing Greg was a good thing, it had felt nice, it had been nice, but all he remembered was that it was Wrong. Bad. “Here’s some water,” Greg murmured, settling back in next to him. Mycroft flinched away from him, turning, shielding himself. No. Greg set the glass of water next to him.

“Go away,” Mycroft muttered.

“Take a sip,” Greg encouraged. “It’ll take away the taste in your mouth.”

“Go away,” Mycroft repeated, forcing his voice to be louder. He wanted Greg to be there. He wanted Greg to go away. It was chaos and madness and why didn’t anything make sense?

“Take a drink, and I’ll go.” Greg lifted the glass and offered it to Mycroft. Reluctantly Mycroft disengaged his grip on the toilet, keeping his eyes anywhere but Greg’s face. No. Bad. Why? Why was it bad? Why couldn’t he remember? Carefully he took the glass, his hands shaking. It was more difficult than he would have liked to take a sip, clear out his mouth. He barely heard the noise of the flush.

Once he had ascertained that Mycroft had sipped the water, Greg had stood carefully and left. Mycroft had watched him go, saw him, saw the mark, and cringed. The pieces finally slotted together in his mind, and he stared morosely at the water. Greg - Greg knew Mycroft was his soul mate. Slowly, shakily his hand felt the back of his neck. He could feel the faint, raised edges of the mark. Greg had touched it. That’s why he had touched Mycroft’s neck. He wrenched his thoughts away from that, from the ghost of Greg’s fingers, just barely brushing the skin.

Mycroft sat in the bathroom until his stomach stopped protesting. Until his head calmed down, until he thought he could walk without prompting his stomach to rebel. What was he going to do? He drank the last bit of the water, soothing his parched throat, but he wanted more. Like hell he was going to ask for it, but the faucet was too far away and standing up to get more water felt like the most daunting task that had ever existed.

“Here.” A hand holding another glass appeared in his vision. Mycroft scowled at it, ignored it. If he ignored Greg, he would go away. Maybe. It was sound logic. Sort of. “Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was more insistent. Almost pleading.

“Fine.” Mycroft glared at the glass, but took it, careful to not actually touch Greg in the process. He was careful to give no sign of gratitude, lest Greg think that Mycroft actually cared that water had magically appeared. Carefully he raised the glass to his lips, gratified to see that the shaking had calmed.

“Just sip it,” Greg cut in. Mycroft glared at him.

“I know,” Mycroft snapped. The too-loud sound of his own words made him flinch, and he shifted away from Greg, careful to stare at the ground and anywhere but the DI.

It didn’t work, for he heard Greg settle down cross-legged not far away. Mycroft swallowed, drank some more water, and tried to pretend that Greg didn’t exist. He didn’t know what to do. Greg sat there, quiet, and silence spooled out between them. It was far too comfortable for Mycroft’s liking, having Greg near him. Greg never should have known. Mycroft never planned to tell him. The plan had been to live his life and never get caught up in the silly business of ‘soul mates’. Not after last time.

“Right,” Greg said, interrupting Mycroft’s thoughts. Mycroft tensed, but didn’t turn. “How long have you known?”

Silence. Silence was his best defense. If he didn’t answer Greg couldn’t use anything against him. Mycroft shifted, moving slowly until his back was against the wall. He still clutched the glass of water in his hands, taking a sip every so often.

“I saw your neck, Mycroft,” Greg said softly. “I know who you are.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. He had known it, known what it meant, but fear crashed over him like a wave. In here, in Greg’s apartment, he was at his mercy. Greg could do whatever he wanted. Say whatever he wanted. Mycroft swallowed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Greg tried again. Mycroft shook his head mutely, drank another sip of the water. No. If he kept quiet, everything would go away, and he would be safe. That was all that mattered. “Why aren’t you talking to me?” He sounded frustrated. Hurt. Mycroft didn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at him. If he did, it would all fall apart.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. His lips were clumsy, and he tripped over the words. Nerves, rather than his headache, or the hangover. He felt like he was going to be sick again. Like everything was going to catch up with him, overwhelm him. All he could think about was finding Jack’s body, seeing the note. The blame, the hatred. How suddenly everyone he had once cared for hated him. How quickly everything would go wrong again, if he didn’t get out of there.

“Mycroft, please.” Greg reached out to touch him, but stopped himself, stopped his hand right inside Mycroft’s range of vision. “I just want to understand. Please talk to me.”

That’s what they all said, Mycroft wanted to say. That they would understand. They would care. Right until they decided to leave him by himself. Blame him for everything. Not that he blamed them, not really. It was all his fault. Even Sherlock hated him. He swallowed. His chest had gone tight, the world felt like it was closing in on him. His head was thudding faster, dull pain making everything worse. He had to get out of there. He had to.

Mycroft stumbled to his feet, then over Greg, who was sitting there, watching him. His next goal was out the door, out of the bathroom, through the living room, out of the flat. The stairs were harder, but he made it down to the pavement, down to the black car that was idling there. The door opened without a word, and he slid inside, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. All he could think of, all he could picture in his mind were Greg’s eyes.

He had seen them, on his trip out of the bathroom. Saw the hurt. The pain. The way Greg didn’t shrink away when Mycroft nearly stepped on him. How Greg watched his every movement. What hurt him the most was the hope that was buried underneath. Greg had waited for him for fifteen years. Dreamed of him. Wished for him. And Mycroft was going to take it all away.

Anthea was sitting in the car, her mobile in her hand. He heard her talk, heard her voice, but the words made no sense. He didn’t care. He didn’t pay attention. They didn’t matter. The car was still idling, hadn’t moved, and then he heard Anthea rap on the glass divide. “Let’s get you home, Sir,” she said softly. Her voice was caring. Compassionate. It was oddly soothing. He uncoiled a bit, no longer painfully tense.

He would get home, change, get through this. He would go to work like nothing had happened. Like nothing would happen. He wouldn’t think of Greg, he wouldn’t talk to him - he would pretend that the DI simply never existed. It was that simple. Sherlock would simply be - reassigned, or someone else would deal with Greg, or - Mycroft could sort that out later. He nodded firmly. Yes, that was a plan. Lifting his head, he turned to look at Greg’s flat one last time, to say good-bye.

Greg was standing there, watching the car. He waved as he caught sight of Mycroft, offered a faint smile, and then turned and went back inside his flat.

Mycroft watched him go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just been very into this fic lately. So here's another update for you. Oops.
> 
> (Sorry I have no patience. ;~; )

Mycroft followed through with his plan - or tried to, anyway. The next few weeks were extraordinarily busy with work and he was called out of the country no less than three times. Anthea (she seemed to like that name) had taken to leaving the CCTV camera monitors on whenever Mycroft came into the office. They were always focused on wherever Greg - Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft firmly corrected himself - was, whether it was a crime scene or his flat or the Yard.

Not that Mycroft didn’t catch himself staring at the CCTV cameras for minutes at a time, until he forced himself to turn them off. He didn’t catch himself flipping through the DI’s file, memorizing every last detail about him. He didn’t have a copy of the file stored at home, in the nightstand by his bed. Of course he didn’t. That was only slightly illegal. But it was worth it. If he couldn’t have Greg, couldn’t have the real thing, the real person, the data was an - acceptable substitute.

The whole ‘forget Greg’ plan wasn’t going very well.

It was two months after his night in Greg’s flat before Mycroft was finally forced to go home from work and get some proper sleep in a bed too big for one person and a house that felt far too lonely. The car ride home was blissfully quiet, Anthea tap-tap-tapping away at her mobile next to him. He settled back against the plush car seats, tilted his head back, and allowed himself to doze off on the short ride home. When he opened his eyes, Anthea was standing outside, holding the door open, and was watching him with a raised eyebrow. He raised both of his in return before he stepped out.

“Tomorrow, 7:15,” she said simply. He nodded and walked towards his home, accompanied by the sound of her sliding back in the car and shutting the door before the car drove away.

It was easy, to feel safe in his home. He was guarded constantly, with security systems that even he was not cleared to see the plans for entrusted with his protection. The door slid open without its normal screech, and Mycroft smiled thinly. So they had completed the repairs he had requested. Good. Efficient. He stepped forward, closing the door behind him, and stopped.

“Hello,” Sherlock drawled, lounging on Mycroft’s sofa. He looked comfortable, happy. Relaxed. Mycroft gritted his teeth, but did not show it. Ignoring Sherlock, he went through his normal coming-home routine. Took his keys out of his pocket, his mobile next, plugging it into its home charger. Then his wallet, emptying out anything in the rest of his pockets. When he straightened up, Sherlock was standing right next to him. “What did you do?” Sherlock hissed.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Mycroft said tiredly. He didn’t need this. He didn’t want it. Sherlock was a priority of his, of course. He loved his younger brother. But two months of sleep neglect combined with frayed nerves had pushed his patience to the utter limit. Sherlock was vicious when he was angry, and Mycroft had been on the other end of his lashing tongue more than once. “If you need somewhere to sleep, the sofa is available, as always.” He stepped around Sherlock and headed further into the house, towards the kitchen. Some tea would calm his nerves.

Sherlock followed. Of course he did. “Two sugars, with milk,” he said.

Mycroft bit back a reply and pulled out a second mug. Maybe the tea would placate Sherlock enough for him to leave. “Of course,” he said smoothly. The kettle clicked when it boiled, and Mycroft basked in the silence. Sherlock was still there, of course he was, but at least he wasn’t saying anything.

“He knows,” Sherlock said slowly. He was studying Mycroft intently, looking him up and down. Next he surveyed Mycroft’s kitchen, went to the doorway, gave the other rooms a look-over. “Roughly two months ago. You haven’t been home since.”

“I have been busy, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied patiently. “A few minor issues have required some small trips outside of the country.”

Sherlock looked him up and down. “No, they haven’t. You could have handled them here. You chose to leave.”

“Inconsequential.” Mycroft handed Sherlock the mug of tea. “How is John?” he inquired mildly.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “As if you don’t know already.”

“It is courteous to ask,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Fine. How’s Lestrade?” Sherlock smirked. Mycroft’s grip tightened around his mug. He had walked into that one.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is of no importance to me,” Mycroft said, his tone frosty. He walked with his tea out to the living room, sinking down onto the sofa and staring anywhere but Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted to illustrate his contempt and followed Mycroft out of the kitchen. “You can’t actually believe that, can you?”

“Leave it alone, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned.

“No.” Sherlock leveled his gaze at Mycroft. “It is interfering with my Work.”

“Doubtful.” Mycroft focused on ignoring Sherlock. He sipped his tea, closed his eyes, and tried to think about the quiet, the peace that came from being home for the first time in two months. It didn’t work. He opened his eyes and glanced at Sherlock.

“He is pining, Mycroft, and it is negatively impacting my ability to gain access to his cases.” Sherlock sank into the armchair not far from Mycroft, glaring at him over the mug. “And it has to do with you. He knows who you are.”

“I can assign you to work with a different DI, if it is too much of a hardship,” Mycroft said, keeping his voice steady. He wasn’t going to think about what Sherlock was saying. What it meant. No. He was done with Greg. He wasn’t going back.

“No.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “The others are idiots.”

“So you’re saying that he is not?” Mycroft inquired, sipping his tea.

Sherlock waved a hand. “He is marginally less idiotic than the rest of the Yard.”

Mycroft hummed nonchalantly, but inwardly he was scowling. He felt warm. Pleased. Happy that Greg had been complimented, that he was gifted such high praise from Sherlock. He shoved the feelings away. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“I already told you.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Going senile, are you?”

Mycroft sighed. “These games are tiring.”

“Fix whatever you did that makes Lestrade look like a ‘kicked puppy’.” Sherlock grimaced as he spoke, obviously unfamiliar with the words.

“John’s words, I expect?” Mycroft inclined his head.

Sherlock sighed, clearly exasperated that Mycroft would even for a moment think that Sherlock would say such a thing. “Of course.”

“You would certainly never stoop to such pedestrian vocabulary,” Mycroft drawled. Silence spooled out between them, Mycroft finishing his tea and setting the mug on the table in front of him. “It is nothing of consequence, Sherlock. I would prefer that you not concern yourself with my business.”

“What did you do, Mycroft?” Sherlock sat aside his tea, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

Mycroft closed his eyes, just briefly. That night played through his mind. Going to Greg’s, seeing him - kissing him. The morning after. Running out of there, fleeing from his demons, from everything he had left behind. He swallowed thickly, opened his eyes. “Nothing happened, Sherlock.”

Sherlock studied him. His gaze was intent, razor-sharp, seeking out every minute movement Mycroft made. “It was not your fault, Mycroft.” Sherlock spoke softly, his voice unusually kind. His words made Mycroft want to flinch away. It was his fault. Of course it was. He should have done something different.

For a moment, Mycroft allowed himself to be vulnerable. “You do not know that,” he said, world-weary and worn.

Sherlock stood, a faint smile on his lips. It was an expression that Mycroft had often seen on Sherlock’s face around John, when John was on Sherlock’s mind. “Yes, I do.” He turned around and left, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft quietly walked upstairs, leaving the mugs where they were. He changed into his pyjamas and slid under his duvet, careful to keep his mind blank. It was hours before he fell asleep.

-

Sherlock stepped quickly into the Yard, his coat billowing behind him. Lestrade was in his office doing paperwork like he almost always was, unless he was catering to Sherlock’s needs. Whatever had happened, it needed to be fixed. The DI was useless as he was. Although Sherlock didn’t mind the staring. It led to some fantastic sex when John was feeling possessive.

He found his way to Lestrade’s office and opened the door without knocking, closing it behind him. “We have to talk,” Sherlock said officiously, sinking into the chair in front of the desk and staring at Lestrade.

Lestrade lifted his head from the paperwork he was signing and stared suspiciously at Sherlock. “Did you do something that I absolutely don’t need to know about?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, Lestrade, why are you so suspicious?” Lestrade just raised his eyebrows pointedly and turned back to his paperwork. Sherlock scowled. How tedious. “What happened between you and my brother?”

There. Lestrade tensed up. So it was bad. Sherlock hadn’t been wrong. “Absolutely nothing,” Lestrade said flatly. “Nothing at all.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re a terrible liar, Lestrade. Why do you even bother?”

“Because I’m boring.” Lestrade pressed far too hard with the pen when he signed his signature; Sherlock could see the lines etched into the paper. Interesting.

“You are his Second.” Sherlock observed him intently, looking for any sort of reaction. Lestrade stilled, looked down, his face softening with sorrow, but he didn’t flinch. Interesting. Sadness, then, not hatred. He wasn’t angry with Mycroft. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade didn’t bother to deny it. “I do.” He didn’t say anything else, instead grabbing a case file off the top of a pile and flipping it open. “Do you need anything, Sherlock, or are you here to torment me?”

“Mycroft did not -” Sherlock struggled for the words. Emotions were not his forte, not one of his numerous strengths, and accessing memories of those times stirred feelings in the worst way. It did not help that Lestrade sat down the file and was watching Sherlock as intently as Sherlock had studied Lestrade before. He was listening, paying attention, and that made it so much worse. “He did not have an ultimately successful relationship with his First.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Divorce isn’t that big of a deal, not anymore,” he said. “He’s got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“His First is dead,” Sherlock said flatly. “He killed himself.”

Lestrade stilled. “Oh,” he said, a quiet exhalation. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft would not be needlessly distraught after a divorce, not more than was socially acceptable (not that a divorce was socially acceptable, not in their circle, but Sherlock didn’t really care).

“What did Mycroft do?” Sherlock asked, a rephrasing of his earlier question.

“He kissed me.” Lestrade didn’t look at Sherlock, didn’t look at anyone. He was staring at the wall of his office, his lips pressed into a thin line. Anger and confusion. Frustration, likely. Sherlock read him like a book. “And then he left.”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “Now, will the information I gave you prevent you from pining further?”

Lestrade seemed to come back into himself, and he turned to glare at Sherlock. “I am not giving you the Calesto file,” he said firmly.

“But it’s interesting,” Sherlock muttered petulantly. He would get John, and bring John back. John could make Lestrade see sense.

“Just because it’s interesting doesn’t mean I’m giving you any excuses to break the law,” Lestrade informed him. “My arse is still getting grilled by my superiors after the tricks you pulled for the last case.”

Sherlock scowled. “I will be back.” He stood, turning around and striding out of Lestrade’s office. Quickly the Yard was behind him, and he did his best to put it out of his mind. He summoned a taxi, quickly telling him to take him to 221B. There was nothing more he wanted than to be home with John so that he could convince John to come to the Yard with him and make Lestrade see sense.

It had nothing to do with the fact that John was safety and security to Sherlock, someone who had never raised a hand at him or called him something undeserved. John was someone Sherlock could curl up with and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist. That his past didn’t exist, that those Things never happened. Sometimes Sherlock just needed to forget, before everything got too much. He stepped out of the taxi once it slid to a stop and went up the stairs, going home to the one who loved him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter this go-round, but I hope it's enjoyable. ;)

Mycroft sat at his desk the next day, reading one of many files that he needed to review before his meeting. It was essential for him to stay as up to date as possible on the various issues he was sure to monitor carefully. Leaning back, he set the file aside, reaching for the remote that controlled the CCTV monitors. The need to check up on Sherlock and to ensure his safety was a regular occurrence in Mycroft’s life, so it wasn’t long before Mycroft had the CCTV feed from 221B up on his screen.

It was only a strong sense of decorum that kept him from wrinkling his nose like a disgusted teenager. John was stretched out over Sherlock on the couch, kissing him deeply. Mycroft started to change the channel and stopped when John pulled back, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s forehead before he stood. Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving. John turned back with a smile, his face affectionate as he leaned down and murmured something into Sherlock’s ear.

There was such obvious tenderness between them, Mycroft thought. It was in everything they did, from their motions to the way they spoke and even in the way they looked at each other. It was love and warmth and it made Mycroft’s heart ache. Jack had been like that, had looked at Mycroft just like that a long time ago. He had held Mycroft and kissed him and they had laid together and things had been perfect like Mycroft had always dreamed they would be. Part of him wanted that again, wanted all that Greg could promise. The rest of him, the saner part, was scared of what could happen, what he was risking. He was certain he couldn’t handle what had happened a second time.

He pressed a button, and 221B disappeared, replaced by a random CCTV feed - Regent’s park. The weather was rather lovely for it being London, and there were several couples strolling around hand-in hand, talking quietly and smiling at each other. Mycroft swallowed, pressed a button again, and the CCTV seemed to gain a mind of its own. It flickered between couples, between angles, bombarding him with images of what his life could be, what it should have been. Unadulterated happiness, true love, destiny - all those trite things that the romance books had promised when he had read them so many years ago. Everything he had hoped for, everything he had dreamed of. Everything that had been ripped away.

Mycroft hesitated, daring, and then tapped in a code on the remote. Greg’s image popped up on the monitor. The DI was in his office, glaring at the paperwork in front of him and muttering something to himself. Mycroft smiled as Greg’s lips moved. Greg was enchanting even without sound. No matter what had happened in the past, no matter what Mycroft told himself, he couldn’t deny that he was attracted to Greg. It was biology, after all. An imperative he couldn’t fight.

His hand was on his phone before he consciously registered his decision, fingers hovering for a moment before typing in the number. He watched Greg’s reaction to the call on the monitor, seeing Greg grab for the phone as if it was his saviour. In a way it was. “Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” Greg said, slightly more enthusiastic than Mycroft would have expected. He really didn’t like paperwork, apparently.

Mycroft paused, swallowed. Speaking was harder than he had expected. “Hello,” he managed, and his gaze was locked on the monitor. Greg shifted in his chair, leaned back, tucking the phone in the crook between his cheek and his shoulder.

“Mycroft?” Greg said, questioning. He sounded cautious but hopeful. Mycroft wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe a phone call wasn’t the best idea. He regretted his decision already. What had he been thinking? “Is Sherlock okay?” Greg straightened and leaned forward, his face showing his concern.

“Sherlock is fine,” Mycroft was able to assure him. That was easy. Talking about Sherlock was easy.

Both men were quiet for at least a minute. Mycroft didn’t know what to say. “Are you okay?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He had shifted in his chair again, his face had changed, but Mycroft couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t see what was there.

“Yes?” Mycroft tried. He was uncomfortably nervous. His skin was tingly and he was restless, fidgeting slightly as he stared at the monitor.

“Mycroft, that wasn’t really something you answer with a question.” Greg smiled as he spoke. Mycroft could see it, could see the way Greg’s lips quirked up.

Why had Mycroft thought this was a good idea, again? Any idea of what he had wanted to say had fled. Part of him wanted to hang up the phone and run like a frightened child. “Mycroft?” Greg’s voice broke into Mycroft’s thoughts.

“Yes?” Mycroft hated parroting himself - it was so undignified. But he really couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Do you-” Greg hesitated. Mycroft could see him steeling himself in his chair, moving to a more confident position. “Do you want to get dinner tomorrow night? A proper dinner.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, thinking. Did he? It seemed like everything went through his mind at once. Jack, his history, how things had turned bad. Sherlock, his words - ‘It’s not your fault’ - maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he would not do what had done incorrectly. Maybe his relationship would turn out right this time, and he would get his fairytale ending. He would just have to do everything correctly.

“Are you asking me on a date, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft said slowly.

“Greg,” the DI corrected, as if Mycroft had forgotten. It sent a little thrill through Mycroft’s stomach. Really, it was silly, but Mycroft could not help it. Things would go well, and he would be happy. It would not turn out like it did last time, he was sure of it.

“I would be amenable to that, yes,” Mycroft said smoothly.

“Really?” Greg sounded surprised. Mycroft’s heart hurt, just a bit, and he shook it away. No. Things would go well. Greg would be happy, Mycroft would be happy, and the world would right itself again.

They chatted a bit longer, figuring out a time (7pm) and who would pick who up (Anthea, picking up Greg). Then Mycroft thumbed the end button on his mobile, and the weight of what he had just done hit him like a ton of bricks. He swallowed thickly. What had he just agreed to? Suddenly he wasn’t sure it was still a good idea.

-

Mycroft was unbearably nervous by the time 7pm rolled around the next day. He had picked the restaurant, small and out of the way, and Anthea had left to retrieve Greg from the Yard. Mycroft forcibly stopped himself from tapping his feet or fidgeting. It was unseemly, and he couldn’t bear to come across as such. He closed his eyes, focusing on breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, and slowly calmed down.

When he opened his eyes, the car had slid up to the pavement and Greg was stepping out. Mycroft stood straighter, his brolly clutched in one hand. He looked at anywhere but Greg. Eye contact seemed oddly terrifying. He heard Greg come closer, heard his footfalls, and eventually Mycroft was forced to turn and offer the DI what he hoped was a warm smile. “Greg,” Mycroft said politely.

“Mycroft.” There was a faint smile on Greg’s lips.

Mycroft inhaled deeply, switching into his calm, confident mode. He wasn’t scared of Greg. Everything would be fine. “Hello.” Mycroft smiled, warmly took Greg’s hand and shook it, holding it an extra few seconds to feel Greg’s skin against his. “Shall we go inside?”

“After you,” Greg said with a smile and a half-bow, allowing Mycroft to lead. Mycroft returned the smile, but unease and nerves rippled underneath his calm exterior. Was that a bad thing to say? A good thing? What was Greg thinking?

Shoving the thoughts aside, he led the way into the restaurant and nodded to the manager, who quickly showed them to their table. Greg shooed him away before he could pull out the chair, so Mycroft sank into his own, steepling his fingers underneath his chin and regarding Greg with a curious expression. “So,” Greg said awkwardly, mimicking Mycroft’s pose.

“Hmm?” Mycroft inquired, dropping his hands and leaning back.

“Right.” Greg shifted in his chair, tucking the napkin in his lap. “Right.”

“Yes?” Mycroft tilted his head. It certainly wasn’t like in the books, not at all. There was no easy comfort, no immediate rapport. It wasn’t even like it had been their last meeting.

“How was your day?” Greg asked. “If, you know. I can ask that. Can’t I? Is that going to get me assassinated?”

Mycroft offered his polite smile. Greg was babbling a bit, he was nervous. Still, he was demonstrating how he cared. It worried Mycroft a small amount, how that realization did nothing but exist as a little note in his mind. “It was a fairly uneventful day, thank you,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “I hope your day was similarly calm?”

Greg studied Mycroft for a second and frowned slightly. “You know already, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t let his worry show on his face. Was that a bad thing? Was he not supposed to be paying attention to Greg’s movements, to what he was doing?

“Right.” Greg leaned back in his chair. Both men were distracted when someone came by to pour the wine. Mycroft watched as it was poured, tasted it, and then nodded. Acceptable.

“It should be a fine compliment to the cuisine,” Mycroft said, lifting his glass and taking a sip.

“You’re doing the formal thing,” Greg said suddenly, and this time it was Mycroft that frowned.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Mycroft replied steadily.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Greg rubbed his forehead. He was tense. Worried? Mycroft couldn’t tell. “You’re pushing me away, and I don’t think you even realize it.”

“I do not think I am,” Mycroft protested, looking affronted.

“Tell me about Sherlock.” Greg steepled his fingers, adopting a serious expression. “What was he like, when he was little?”

Sherlock. Mycroft could talk about Sherlock. That was easy. He thought for a moment. “Sherlock was an irascible child at times, the sweetest infant at others. Some days he would not allow anyone near him to comfort him, other days he would crawl into your lap and never want to leave.” He was smiling at memories, at thoughts that drifted through his head. Things had been good, so long ago. “He was a quiet toddler, although you would not believe it now. He was constantly learning, pointing at things, wanting to be read to. He would only sleep after several bedtime stories.”

“What were his favourites?” Greg asked, his voice soft.

“Shakespeare,” Mycroft said with a shake of his head. “He was also particularly fond of Jules Verne.” He laughed. “He was gifted an Irish Setter puppy on his fifth birthday. We were reading pirate stories that week, so he was named Redbeard.” Greg snorted. Mycroft smiled faintly, pausing to wet his throat with a sip of wine. “He did well in school, growing up. He was - well, him, and that did present certain logistical issues, but nothing that was unable to be dealt with.” His voice was starting to speed up, his breath coming faster as his mind plunged into a maelstrom of memories. His parents had died, that year, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft on their own. He preferred not to think about how he got through Uni, got Sherlock almost to the end of his A levels.

Then - everything had happened, all that, and Jack had come into the picture. For a few months, Mycroft thought Jack had been their salvation. He swallowed thickly, lost to the memories. His mind moved recklessly forward, remembering everything he fought so hard to hide. How the words had turned from soft and sweet to harsh and cruel. The accusations. The - physicality of it, how Mycroft had gotten better at hiding the bruises that had covered his pale skin. How he had come home, a year later, to find Jack on the bed, dead. Sherlock was using drugs by that time, instead of going to Uni. Staying home, being reckless - anything other than what was expected of him. Mycroft’s world had fallen apart, and it was all thanks to the person that was supposed to love him.

He was aware at that point, that Greg was watching him, concern on his face. “Sherlock eventually went to University, and lasted approximately two years before he left. He was intelligent, but unfortunately far too jaded for his age.” Mycroft sighed wistfully, as best he could. His chest was tense, and he was still on the border of fight-or-flight. But he could do this. Just a bit more. “Eventually he ended up in his - predicament, and then he stumbled across your crime scene, and now all is history.” Mycroft smiled blithely.

Greg studied him for a moment. Mycroft didn’t pay him much attention, focused on calming down his racing heart. He was not in danger. Greg was not going to hurt him. He focused on the connection between them, the bond built from the marks on their necks, and it wasn’t long before his breathing steadied, and the tension ebbed from his body. Despite his innate psychological reaction to panic at the feeling of intimacy, biology won out. “Has Sherlock been causing problems at the Yard again?”

The DI waited to reply until the waiter set their food in front of them. “Nah, nothing more than usual.” He smiled at Mycroft, and then picked up his utensils to eat.

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. “How about - how did you grow up?” It was probably the most awkward thing Mycroft had ever said, but he didn’t know how to phrase it otherwise.

Greg grinned widely and started chattering between bites, regaling Mycroft with stories about growing up in London as the oldest of three children, looking out for his siblings - the shenanigans they got up to. What it was like, attending a public school that wasn’t top of the line. What it was like, being a Second. How he met his wife, how his life had gone after the divorce. All ordinary things that Mycroft would never experience.

Mycroft mostly listened, although when prompted he would offer one or two-word sentences or utterances to encourage Greg to continue with his talk. He didn’t know what to say. None of that was anything he could relate to, really. His throat was uncomfortably dry, and the food didn’t taste as good as it usually did. The wine did, however, so Mycroft drank that. And then another glass. Maybe a third. He stopped after that, afraid that Greg would notice. There was always more alcohol he could have at home.

Finally dinner was over, and the conversation wound down. Mycroft half-smiled as Greg finished telling a story about Sherlock tripping on a case and getting a face-full of rotten vegetables, much to his team’s amusement. Sherlock was rarely clumsy, but when he was, the results were often enjoyable for a wide range of people. They stood, and Mycroft lead the way out of the restaurant until they made it outside.

“Right,” Greg mused, eyeing the two separate but identical cars idling outside. “Thanks for the dinner,” he told Mycroft.

“You are welcome,” Mycroft said pleasantly. He hesitated for a moment, and then inched closer. Was it improper? He didn’t think he would be. Carefully he pressed his lips to Greg’s cheek. When he pulled back, Greg was watching him with raised eyebrows and a faint smile on his lips.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course?” Mycroft tried to make it a statement, but instead his words came out a question. What, exactly, was Greg going to do? He eyed Greg skeptically, anticipation making him nervous.

Greg placed his hands on Mycroft’s biceps. Not gripping, just resting. Mycroft stared at him, wary. “Trust me,” he murmured. Mycroft closed his eyes. He could trust Greg. He thought. Maybe. He swallowed as the hands slowly trailed up his shoulders, fingers skimming over Mycroft’s skin until Greg was holding Mycroft’s head in his hands. Greg’s hands were warm, comforting, but Mycroft’s stomach was doing flips.

Then Greg’s lips were on his, not pressuring but soft and chaste, sweet and gentle. Mycroft’s hands instinctively went to Greg’s sides, holding onto him. Then Greg broke away, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Hello,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft’s eyes opened, and to him it was a miracle he didn’t flinch away, with Greg so close. “Hello,” he said uncertainly. Greg smiled, kissed him briefly, lightly, and then let go.

“Good night, Mycroft Holmes.” He waved as he turned and headed for the first car.

Mycroft stood where he was, staring as Greg slid into the car and it drove away. He didn’t notice as Anthea came up next to him. “Shall we get you home, Sir?” she inquired politely.

He blinked, just once, and nodded. “Yes, thank you.” Anthea led the way to the car, Mycroft sliding in next to her.

The drive home was a comfortable quiet, with Anthea working on her mobile and Mycroft staring out the window. He didn’t know what to do. What to think. All he wanted to do was get home and - well, he had a method of making things clearer. Or at least making it so that didn’t have to think about it. The car slid to a stop in front of his home and he opened the door.

“Good night, Sir. I shall be in the office if I am needed,” Anthea said. He nodded and then got out, shutting the door behind him and heading inside.

The first place he went was where he stored his alcohol. He stared, aghast, as he opened the door to find it empty. Empty. Why was it empty? There had certainly been spirits in there last time he had checked. Next were his backup storage spots. Certainly there was alcohol there. Frustrated and desperate, he checked his last spot, the hidden one in his bedroom. Nothing. Instead there was just a note in Anthea’s handwriting..

‘You’ll thank me later.’

He scowled. She was so fired.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when all those shiny tags start becoming super relevant. Mentions of DV/suicide, and lots of guilt.
> 
> Next chapter shouldn't be out for a week or two - I've got family in town and unfortunately they have very little patience for writing.

Mycroft stared intently at the CCTV, watching Greg as he moved around the crime scene. Most of his morning had been consumed with following the DI around, ensuring that - something. Mycroft could think of an excuse later. He frowned slightly as Sherlock appeared on the feed, John trailing behind him. The solution to the case had been obvious even through the CCTV cameras. What was Sherlock doing there? Certainly Greg hadn’t consulted him.

Greg seemed just as surprised as Mycroft to see Sherlock there, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. Sherlock stood for a few moments, studying him. Surely Sherlock had not come all that way just to see Greg. He leaned closer, focusing on their lips so he could see what was being said. Lip-reading was one of his most useful skills. “You’re smiling,” Sherlock said to Greg.

“So what?” Greg said back. The DI’s eyes were narrowed, now, and he crossed his arms. Sherlock glanced around, and for a moment made eye contact with the CCTV camera. Mycroft frowned, disapproving, as he watched Sherlock turn Greg so that neither of them were visible to the camera any longer. Of course Sherlock would approach Greg in an alley where there was only one point of view.

Sherlock did not stay long, and it was less than five minutes before he turned around and disappeared from the CCTV monitor. Mycroft steepled his hands together underneath his chin, frowning at the screen. Greg looked momentarily thoughtful and then turned his attention back to his work. There was a knock on the door to Mycroft’s office, and Mycroft picked up the remote, shutting off the screen. “Enter,” he said politely.

“Sir, there’s been an emergency.” Anthea stopped just inside the door, and Mycroft stood immediately at the expression on her face. “You are needed at once.” He slid on his suit jacket, automatically cleaning off his desk and locking files away in their appropriate locations. “All requisite files and a summary of the situation shall be awaiting you in the jet,” she said, leading the way out of the office. “I shall be accompanying you.”

“The situation is that dire?” Mycroft inquired, his mind already whirling with what could have gone so drastically wrong to require both him and Anthea.

“Yes.” And with that, he followed her the entire way to the jet.

-

It had not been just one emergency. It rarely was. That single situation had sparked others across the globe, all of which Mycroft had no choice but to handle personally. He had lost track of how many countries he had visited after the twelfth, days he had been gone after the twentieth. Everything had blended together. Then a situation had erupted in Belfast and that had been the end of it all.

He was bruised but not battered, sore but still able to stand and function (although sitting with a bruised coccyx was going to be painful for a few days). Anthea had been forced to protect him when the group he had been negotiating with suddenly decided they no longer wanted to cooperate with the government. Not that Mycroft was completely defenseless - he had his own martial arts qualifications - but he was only one person against a room full of people far larger and angrier than he was. Even Anthea as backup was only one person more.

The car slid to a stop outside his home and he nodded thankfully to an exhausted Anthea before getting out, using his umbrella to help hold him up. “I shall see you on - in two days.” He didn’t even know what day it was, nor did he care. He was rather grateful for the time off. Gingerly he closed the door of the car, trying not to wince as the movement aggravated the soreness of his muscles.

Next was the walk to his door, and he sighed at it, longing. It was far too much of a walk; it seemed like forever. He entered quietly, shutting the door behind him and flipping on the dim lights. Home at last. “You have been gone far too long,” came a voice from his living room. Sherlock.

Of bloody course. Mycroft scowled. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“Do you know what day it is?” Sherlock bit out. “You have been gone forty seven days, Mycroft.”

“And why does that matter?” Mycroft snarled back, tired and his reserves of patience gone. Then it hit him, and he felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh.” Part of him was tired enough to collapse then and there, but adrenaline kept him going. “Greg.”

“Yes, ‘Greg’,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “He believes you have abandoned him. My crime scenes are in shambles, thanks to you.”

“They are his crime scenes, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him. He fell silent, glancing around. Did he want to try for tea, or did he want to sit down?

“There is tea on the table,” Sherlock said dismissively, nodding towards the armchair.

Mycroft looked at him, startled. “Thank you,” he replied, limping towards the chair and sinking down into it with a small, pained noise. Greg. He had essentially ignored him for longer than a month, without a word, without anything. Certainly Greg had decided he wasn’t worth it, that Mycroft was worthless, of no use to him. Certainly he had moved on. “I - I apologise, Sherlock. I did not mean for you to be inconvenienced.”

Sherlock settled on the arm of the sofa, watching Mycroft intently. “Fix it.”

It was a testament to exactly how tired Mycroft was that he closed his eyes and sighed, sipping his tea. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.” He felt oddly vulnerable. Defenseless. It was’t something he was comfortable with. There was absolutely no way that he was going to face Greg in such a state. Maybe ever. His heart constricted painfully at the thought of never seeing Greg again. He swallowed thickly.

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course you can. Apologise and be on your way.”

“It’s not that simple.” Mycroft was briefly distracted by how good the tea tasted. It was exactly the way he liked it. “I cannot do it, Sherlock.” He couldn’t. He really couldn’t. Greg would not forgive him, Greg would hate him, and Mycroft did not think he was strong enough to go through that again. Already Mycroft was trying to close the connection, trying to push Greg out of his mind.

Sherlock seemed to struggle with what to say. He scowled at Mycroft and Mycroft narrowed his eyes in response. “It is not going to happen again,” Sherlock managed. He looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Mycroft said, looking away from Sherlock.

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock said fiercely. “Stop running away like a coward.”

“I am not a coward,” Mycroft hissed, and he stood despite his sore muscles, glaring at Sherlock.

“Yes you are,” Sherlock shot back.

“You don’t know anything.” Mycroft was fuming now, his tea forgotten on the table in front of him.

“I know he hurt you,” Sherlock retorted. “I know he slapped you around and you didn’t do anything about it.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a moment, horrified. Jack had only - only done that in private, or so Mycroft had thought. He had been so meticulous to try and hide that part of their relationship from Sherlock. It was bad enough that Sherlock could hear them, he didn’t need the burden of knowing what else went on behind closed doors. “I…” He swallowed. “It is complicated, Sherlock.”

“How complicated can it be?” Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “He is dead. He is gone. He is no longer your problem.”

If there was anything Mycroft wished was true, it was that. That he wasn’t haunted by Jack’s memory everywhere he went. That he didn’t think of him, didn’t hear his voice. “It is not that simple,” he said, his voice softer. Broken. He didn’t cry, he never cried, not in front of people, but he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “He killed himself, Sherlock. He killed himself because he could not face a future by my side.” Mycroft shuddered. “You do not simply forget something like that.”

Sherlock stared at him. “How do you know that?” His voice was softer, less certain. He was shocked, surprised. “You can’t know that.” Not that Mycroft was startled. No, that was something he had never told Sherlock, never told anyone. Why Jack had killed himself was Mycroft’s secret to bear, his own, personal burden that he never wanted to share with anyone. His secret shame.

“I do,” said Mycroft dully. “It was in the note he left behind.” The note that he had kept, buried at the bottom of one of his draws. He didn’t really know why he kept it, why sometimes, when he was particularly drunk, he would pull it out, read it, and cry. He just did.

Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to say. Mycroft didn’t really care. He was very tired. Exhaustion made his brain foggy, and he sank back down into the chair, not sure if he could make it to his bedroom. Maybe he would just nap where he was. “I did not know,” Sherlock told him finally.

“It is not your burden to bear,” Mycroft said, his voice soft, muted.

“It’s not yours, either.” Mycroft tensed as Greg’s voice echoed throughout the quiet of the room. He had stepped out from the shadows, so that both Sherlock and Mycroft could see him. Sherlock suddenly looked extremely interested in a nearby bookshelf, although Mycroft could tell that his brother was shaken by what had been discussed.

“Has he been present for the entire discussion?” Mycroft inquired of Sherlock, his voice steely.

Sherlock drew his coat further around himself. He seemed oddly vulnerable, almost like a lost child. “I shall be going now,” Sherlock muttered, and he quickly let himself out the front door.

“Bastard,” Greg grumbled under his breath.

Mycroft sat in his chair, silently looking anywhere other than Greg. He didn’t know what to say. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to say anything. He hated the prickly feeling of vulnerability, the fear that went with it. The adrenaline that had surged through his veins at Greg’s appearance was slowly trickling away, leaving him sore and in a significant amount of pain.

“What was his name?” Greg asked, breaking the silence.

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, then stared dully at the far wall. “Jack.”

“Right.” Greg fell silent for a moment. Mycroft glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. Greg was thinking, it was obvious in his face, the way he held himself. “You look like you’re about to collapse.” He frowned. “When was the last time you slept?”

Mycroft thought for a second, caught off guard. That was not what he had expected Greg to ask, not what he had expected him to say. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Mycroft didn’t quite like that answer. “Inconsequential.”

“So quite some time ago, then.” Greg grimaced. “Can - can you stand?” He stepped closer, like he wanted to help. Mycroft didn’t flinch away, but he gripped the arms of his chair tightly and didn’t look at Greg. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Greg - Greg was still here. Why? Why had he not left? “You need some sleep,” Greg said quietly, hovering as close as he could without touching Mycroft.

“Why - why are you still here?” Mycroft asked, hating how he stumbled over the words. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he did not think he would be able to, not with the way his mind kept trying to process what had happened. Greg was here, he had heard everything, and Mycroft was torn between pulling him close and shoving him away.

“Because you need me,” Greg said firmly. He ignored Mycroft’s flinch as he helped him out of the chair, an arm on his shoulders for support. “Where are we going?”

Even exhaustion did not dull the pleasant buzz that Mycroft felt from Greg touching him, and Mycroft leaned against Greg unintentionally. “Up the stairs, first room on the left,” he murmured.

“If you need to stop, tell me,” Greg told him, carefully guiding Mycroft towards the stairs and helping him up. Mycroft didn’t say anything. He was watching the ground carefully, watching his feet, somewhat hypnotised by the way he and Greg were in step with no effort. They were made for each other, perfect matches. His second chance.

They made it to the stop of the stairs before Mycroft needed to stop. The exhaustion had started to become overwhelming and it was hard to maneuver when he could not see where he was stepping. He wanted to lean into Greg, let him hold them up until the world became normal again. When Mycroft tried to speak, words didn’t come out, and he frowned. “You’re exhausted,” Greg explained, helping lead him the last few steps into his bedroom. “Don’t try to speak if you don’t have to.” Gingerly Greg let Mycroft sit on the edge of his bed, and stepped back, frowning slightly. “Er. What do you sleep in?”

Mycroft glanced towards his wardrobe and Greg followed his eyes, pulling out a pair of worn pyjamas and setting them on the bed next to Mycroft. “Do you - do you need help?”

“No,” Mycroft mumbled, blinking and fighting to keep his eyes open. “‘m fine.”

Greg studied him for a moment and then moved closer. “Here, I’ll get your shoes and your jacket, at least.” Mycroft looked at him and eventually nodded. Okay. He felt Greg’s hands on his shoes, gently taking them off and setting them aside. Next he undid the buttons on Mycroft’s jacket, then his waistcoat, sliding them off Mycroft’s shoulders and setting them carefully on a chair near the wall.

Mycroft stood, wobbling slightly before he was able to gather himself. “There is a guest room down the hall,” he said slowly, his voice thick from how tired he was. “You - you may stay there, if you wish.”

Greg smiled, stepping back but staying close enough so that Mycroft could use him to steady himself if needed. “Okay.”

“Good night,” Mycroft told Greg, only briefly meeting his eyes.

“Good night,” Greg said with a faint smile before he left Mycroft’s room, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft barely remembered changing clothes, and then at last he crawled onto his bed and underneath the duvet. He fell asleep quickly and didn’t dream.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah I was able to spend the past few nights writing. :D So here's another chapter for y'all.

Mycroft groaned at his sore muscles as he pushed himself up, glancing at the window and blinking at the light that had seeped under the curtains. He wasn’t certain how long he had been asleep, but it seemed like quite some time. Slowly, painfully he turned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing and walking shakily towards the bathroom.

He stopped by a draw on the way, wanting to stop and see it, no matter how sore he was. Tentatively he pulled it open, rustling inside it for the note buried at the bottom. He held it in his hand, stood up, and read it. Remembered. Felt sick.

_‘I can’t live like this anymore._

_I’m sorry._

_Jack.’_

Carefully Mycroft laid the note on the smooth wood surface of the drawer, placing his hands palm-down on either side. They held him up, steadied him, even when his knees threatened to buckle. There was a knock on the door, and he looked over at it, his eyes narrowing. It was only when he realized who it was that he relaxed, just a bit.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice was tentative, as if he wasn’t certain he was still allowed to be in Mycroft’s home.

Greg. Mycroft had forgotten that he was there. That he had - Mycroft’s quick glance at his clock confirmed that Greg had probably been awake for several hours. “Yes?” Mycroft deliberately straightened up as the door creaked open, just a tiny bit.

“Are you decent? I brought some medicine and some water. You seemed sore last night, and I can’t imagine that sleeping for so long helped any. This might, though.” The door inched open, bit by bit, and Mycroft turned and hobbled over. For some reason it felt wrong, having Greg in his room. Too personal. Too much, too soon.

“Yes, you may enter,” Mycroft said, but he ensured that he was as close to the door as he was able to be once Greg opened it all the way.

“Here.” Greg extended both his hands. One held a couple of capsules containing what Mycroft recognised as paracetamol, and the other a large glass of water from his kitchen. Greg looked a bit worried, as if he thought Mycroft would be offended by his poking about in the kitchen. In truth, the thought did cause Mycroft some discomfort, but he quickly pushed it aside.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out and taking both from Greg. The pills were tossed into his mouth and he swallowed a few sips of water before he passed the glass back to Greg.

Greg stood there for a second, somewhat uncertain about what to do next. “I’ll just, uh, wait downstairs.”

Mycroft swallowed thickly at the thought of what would happen next. Talking. He didn’t really want to talk, not at all. “I shall be down soon,” Mycroft said eventually. Greg nodded and closed the door, casting one lingering glance at Mycroft’s room. Once Greg was gone, Mycroft made his way to the bathroom and went through a very basic version of his usual morning routine.

He puzzled over clothes for several minutes. His normal work attire felt like simply too much, but he was not comfortable wearing pyjamas to what promised to be a vitally important conversation. As a last-ditch attempt he dug out what few casual clothes he owned. After pondering the pitifully small amount of clothes he could wear around his home on his days off (Mycroft was not even sure he knew what a day off was - what did one do when they were forbidden from work?), he settled on a worn pair of jeans and a plain shirt.

The medicine was starting to kick in, and as he dressed, he could feel his muscles slowly loosening up. He was still sore, still uncomfortable, but he no longer felt like a man twice his age. Nor did he hobble like one. Mycroft dithered in his room as long as he could, re-arranging what few personal objects he had in his room, before pulling open the draw beside his bed, intending on placing the note there. Greg’s file was in there, the one Mycroft had smuggled home months ago.

His heart sped up at the sight, and he flipped it open, seeing Greg’s picture clipped to the inside. The knowledge that the real Greg was waiting for him downstairs both made him happy and scared him at the same time. There was so much he could lose, so much that he felt depended on this single, simple conversation. He closed the draw and opened his bedroom door, the brief moment of braveness leaving him as quickly as it had come.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, Mycroft took a deep breath before he started down them. It was awkward, his muscles protesting with every step. He must have been making noises he did not notice, for when he was halfway down he looked up to see Greg standing at the bottom, watching him with concern in his eyes. Averting his eyes, Mycroft made it down them on his own.

Greg stood back, quiet. Respectful of Mycroft’s determination. Mycroft stood at the bottom of the steps, not looking at Greg. “Would you like some - food?” His tired brain could not remember what meal it was, much less what food was in his kitchen. Hopefully he had some food. His stomach rumbled, and Mycroft frowned. When was the last time he had eaten? It had certainly been quite some time ago.

“Sit,” Greg said quietly, stepping into the kitchen ahead of Mycroft, who followed. There was tea cooling on the counter, Mycroft’s favourite kind, and Greg picked up the mug and pressed it into Mycroft’s hands. “Anthea dropped some food off earlier this morning. I’m not a great cook, mind you, but I can put together something for breakfast.” The corner of Mycroft’s lips quirked up into a faint semblance of a smile. Anthea was horrible at following directions.

Mycroft sat at the island in front of where Greg was surveying the cupboards. The DI was fascinating to watch, even when he was just standing still. “I suppose I am amenable to that suggestion.”

Greg gave him a wide, brilliant smile, and Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. “Good,” the DI told Mycroft, already pulling down various pans. Apparently he had spent quite some time investigating Mycroft’s kitchen. That, or Anthea had told him where everything was.

Mycroft watched him for a few moments, his heart sinking. It was time. He couldn’t put it off any longer. “Our parents died the year Sherlock left primary school,” Mycroft said slowly, He was staring at the far wall, his gaze distant. Everything. He would tell Greg everything, and then Greg would realize that it wasn’t worth having him around, and things would be over. Then he could get drunk and forget all that had happened. Forget the hope that he had, the thought that everything might work out this time. It wasn’t going to. “I wasn’t much older, I had just finished my A-levels.”

Mycroft swallowed. It was harder to speak, harder to talk about it than he thought he would be. “It turns out that our father had significant gambling debts, and we were left penniless. I was able, through my family’s connections, to obtain a small job in the government that would ensure my future success.” He glanced at Greg, reading the tension in his muscles, the way he held the pans just a bit tighter than necessary. “It wasn’t easy, for I did not make very much, but I was able to put Sherlock through secondary school and into his A-levels.” Quietly Mycroft steepled his fingers, resting his chin on them, still avoiding looking at Greg.

“We lived in a small flat, just the two of us. I would read Sherlock stories at night, even as he grew older, for we only had one bed and had to share with Redbeard, until he died when Sherlock was 16. We would talk about the future, what it held for us. How wonderful it would be when we could be happy.” Mycroft let out a short, bitter laugh. “Our parents had spun stories about how wonderful it was, knowing the person who was born to love you. How much better our lives would be.” He shook his head, and sighed wistfully.

“I met Jack at my graduation. He had a sibling there, someone he was close to.” Mycroft closed his eyes, lost in the memories. “I recognised him for who he was when I saw him, and he felt it as well.” He wanted to cry. It hurt all over again, like his heart was being crushed into dust. “The first six months were beyond all of my expectations, beyond what I had been led to expect. He was kind, caring - the perfect gentlemen. He was perfect.” The corner of his lips quirked up in a vague, pained smile.

“One night I had left dinner to burn. Sherlock was out late, completing advanced biology studies in a laboratory at his school. My mobile rang and I was summoned to pacify and remedy a small problem and was unable to monitor what was in the oven. When I came back our dinner had been burnt beyond salvage.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “That was the first night he yelled at me. I deserved it, of course,” he said hastily, slightly defensive. “I should have remembered to turn the oven off or at least remembered to check on it.”

Mycroft paused in his narration, watching Greg cook. He was frying some bacon now, scrambled eggs already on their two plates. “The first time he hit me was a month later.” Mycroft shifted, leaning back in his chair, getting comfortable. “I had challenged him in front of his work colleagues, disagreed with his assessment of a current economic challenge. He did not take kindly to being criticised.” He felt his cheek, the line of his jaw. He could clearly remember the impact of Jack’s fist on his face. How it had felt. The shame, the guilt. Jack apologising afterwards, promising to never do it again.

The bacon was on the plates, and Greg was making toast. “It got worse, over the following six months,” Mycroft mused. He felt numb, icy. It was close to the end, close to the time Greg would leave him. “I could rarely do anything correctly. The dinner was never cooked properly, my hours were far too long - I only occasionally saw Sherlock, and he had lost a significant amount of weight, having withdrawn from both myself and Jack.” He sighed. “I became adept at using makeup to disguise what had happened, and began to hide the mark on my neck.”

His lips twisted into a pained grimace. “Jack took it as a sign that I was abandoning him, and the last month was the worst of them all.” Mycroft swallowed thickly, unable to keep the emotion from entering his voice. “Finally, I came into our bedroom and discovered him on the bed. He had shot himself. A note was by him. It blamed me. His death was my fault.” He shook his head. “I never told Sherlock. I never told anyone. It was not their burden to bear.”

“It’s not your burden, either,” Greg reiterated, his voice choked with emotion. He turned to hand a plate to Mycroft and took a seat across from him.

Mycroft ignored him and averted his eyes. “Sherlock began using drugs, although he may have been using them prior to Jack’s death. Our relationship fell apart. He does not stand my interference with anything, not anymore.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Few do.” Mycroft turned to face Greg for the first time since he had began talking. His face was blank, composed, and his voice did not shake. “I am not a good choice for you, Greg. It is not a good decision for you to remain in my company.”

Greg looked at him with such tenderness that Mycroft could not hold his gaze; he looked down at his food. It looked delicious. “Eat your breakfast,” Greg said softly.

Mycroft stared at him. He was staying? No, of course he wasn’t. “The door is over there,” Mycroft said, nodding his head in the appropriate direction.

“I know.” Greg smiled a sad smile. Both men were distracted as Mycroft’s stomach made a loud noise. Mortified, Mycroft picked up a fork and began to eat. He kept his head down, hoping he would not be able to see Greg leave. It was going to hurt and he knew it. “You think I’m leaving?” Greg asked, his voice amicable.

Mycroft didn’t answer at first. He told himself that he was too busy eating. His cheeks burned red with shame mingled with guilt. Of course Greg was leaving. Mycroft was worthless, useless, and of no use to Greg, as damaged as he was. “Of course.”

“I’m not,” Greg said simply. “Mycroft, none of what Jack did was your fault. That doesn’t make you any less worthy of love, no matter what you think.”

Mycroft had gone tense enough to snap in half. There was that word, the word he hated. No. None of that. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg murmured, immediately sounding aware of his mis-step. “I’m sorry. I won’t say it again.”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, startled. “Thank you.” Greg smiled at him, cautious, and then went back to eating his breakfast. They ate in a near-silence, punctuated only by the scrape of utensils against plates. Eventually Mycroft finished, and he pushed his plate away. “It was very good,” he told Greg.

Greg grinned at him. “Good!” he said, his voice lighter and more cheerful. His plate was already in the sink, and Mycroft was startled to realise he must have finished several minutes ago. Greg picked up Mycroft’s dishes and walked them over to the sink, setting them down. “I’ll clean them later,” he assured Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, although he did not particularly care. His housekeeper was useful for something, after all.

Both men were quiet and the silence in the kitchen caused Mycroft to shift uneasily in his chair. He did not know what was to happen next, what Greg was thinking. What Greg expected of him. Even as a child he had never been fond of ambiguous situations. That was what he liked of politics. Everyone wanted something; it was a game to figure out what it was. Home, with Greg, Mycroft had no idea if something was wanted, or needed, or desired. He had no idea how to find out.

“What are you thinking?” Greg asked, his hesitant voice coming from far closer than the other side of the table.

Mycroft’s head jerked up, realizing that Greg was standing less than a foot away. “I - I do not know,” Mycroft finished lamely. He looked at Greg, at his worn, caring face, his warm eyes, the mark on the back of his neck that Mycroft knew was there. The way his body had relaxed, finally, and he no longer looked like he was in pain. Mycroft wanted him, wanted all of him in a way he had not wanted since Jack, but there was something holding him back. A niggling caution, a red warning light in the back of his mind.

Greg closed the space between them, slid an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft instinctively started to jerk back - no one just _touched_ him, not like that - but stopped himself just in time. He stared at Greg, searching his face, looking for anything, any sign of what Greg wanted from him. There was nothing there, nothing demanding, ordering. Instead there was acceptance and a caring that warmed Mycroft from his head to his toes.

Tentatively Mycroft leaned forward, buried his head in Greg’s middle, and Greg wrapped both arms around the slightly taller man. It was awkward, at first - it had been a long time since Mycroft had allowed someone else to touch him, and an even longer time since someone had held him as such - but it was not long before he relaxed into it. The embrace was oddly comforting. “It has been a long time,” Mycroft said, his voice thick with emotion. He was scared, he was wary - it had been so many years. What if he did something wrong? He could ruin everything.

Greg hugged him closer, leaned down and kissed the crown of his head. It was a strangely intimate gesture that made Mycroft’s stomach flutter with butterflies. “I know,” Greg murmured softly, rubbing Mycroft’s back with a comforting hand. “I know.”

For the first time in a long time, Mycroft allowed himself to hope.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was able to get it up earlier than I intended. :)
> 
> This is quite a long chapter, compared to the others, but there just wasn't a good breaking point. Enjoy. <3

Mycroft didn’t know how long it was before he pulled back. What should he do next? What was expected of him? Was asking Greg to stay overstepping boundaries? Did he want Greg to stay? His mind whirled with questions that he didn’t know the answer to. He didn’t look up at Greg, he couldn’t face him. Part of him was scared to see what would be on Greg’s face.

“Do you want me to stay?” Greg moved back, taking the chair closest to Mycroft. “It’s okay if you don’t know,” he added when Mycroft tensed. Mycroft was silent for a few moments, and he glanced up to see Greg’s smile. “Do you want to get dinner on Wednesday?”

Mycroft stared at Greg, startled. The bruises and his damaged coccyx was starting to catch up with him and he felt sore and achy all over now that the adrenaline from their conversation was fading. “Dinner?”

“A date,” Greg clarified. “A dinner date.”

“A date,” Mycroft repeated.

“Yes.” Greg looked hopeful. “A second date.”

“I - I would have to check my diary,” Mycroft said, watching Greg’s face.

Greg smiled, standing. “Call me when you know?” He leaned forward, telegraphing his movements, and kissed Mycroft briefly on the lips and then the forehead. “I’m going to go. You need some time to think, and I don’t want to get in your way.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, and stopped. Did he want to protest? A warm hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed gently, careful not to aggravate Mycroft’s sore body. Mycroft glanced down at Greg’s hand and then back up at his face. He hadn’t even flinched. That startled him. “I shall call as soon as I am able,” Mycroft promised.

Greg’s thumb stroked his shoulder, comforting, and Mycroft leaned into the touch without meaning to. “You can call me if you want to talk, too,” he told Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t want him to go. Not yet. What if he didn’t come back? Certainly the world would consent and allow him a few more minutes. “Would you like to have dinner here, tomorrow night?” he said suddenly.

Greg looked at him, surprised. “Are you sure?”

Mycroft looked away as hastily as his sore neck would allow, embarrassed. “If it is an inconvenient time, you do not have to -” He was cut off by Greg’s lips against his, soft and gentle.

“I’d love to,” Greg said with a smile. “Tomorrow at seven?”

“Yes.” Mycroft turned slightly as Greg let go of his shoulder.

“I’m available by phone,” Greg reminded him, his expression serious and warm at the same time. Mycroft nodded, a small incline of his head, and Greg smiled. “Tomorrow at seven it is.” He turned around and left, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Mycroft behind him.

Mycroft watched him go, hoping desperately that it would not be the last time he saw Greg. He couldn’t explain when Greg had become so important to him, he just knew that he was. Glancing at the clock, Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck absently. He wasn’t supposed to work, but the alternative was staying at home and _thinking_ and that was about as much fun as acupuncture.

There was something deliciously decadent about the idea of reading high-class, important government documents when clad in jeans and a ragged t-shirt. Maybe he would even make a conference call. The thought left him feeling oddly buoyant as he strode into his home office. He kept a laptop there so that he could work from home if necessary (and it was nearly always necessary). Deftly he navigated through the multiple levels of security necessary to ensconce himself in his office with an appropriate workspace. He understood why the security was the way it was, but it was quite troublesome at times.

Connecting the laptop to another external monitor, he pulled up a few of the CCTV feeds on the larger screen. “Checking on Sherlock,” he told the empty room. As if it mattered when there was no one there to hear his empty excuses. The cameras showed Sherlock in 221B, sitting at the table with a microscope and a container of - ugh - eyeballs. Mycroft wrinkled his nose and switched to the view of the street outside 221B.

He glanced around his office just to make sure that no one else was around before he opened the multiple feeds which could hold Greg’s image. Greg hadn’t said where he was going after leaving Mycroft’s, but Mycroft knew it was likely going to be the Yard or his flat. He was dependable, even predictable that way. Mycroft rather liked it. Scanning the screens he was able to catch Greg on the way inside the Yard. Work, then. A faint smile crossed Mycroft’s lips. How fitting for his Second to be someone as obsessed with work as he was.

Mycroft couldn’t say exactly why he left the Yard’s camera feeds up on his monitor for the many hours he worked that day. He could look up at the screen and see Greg hard at work, whether it was dutifully filling out paperwork or fetching coffee . Once Mycroft followed him via CCTV to a crime scene. It made him feel less alone, knowing that Greg was still out there and hadn’t fled the country.

Not that Greg wouldn’t have multiple opportunities to do so before dinner the next day. Mycroft was going to be sure of that. The DI’s workload would be properly managed in order to allow him time to leave either the city or the country in case he wished to decrease the chance of ever encountering Mycroft again.

Deviating from his work responsibilities, Mycroft browsed the internet for a simple, filling recipe that he could prepare for their dinner tomorrow. Anthea had already left him several particularly useful bookmarks, but he wanted to see what else was available. He wasn’t particularly fond of cooking extravagant meals - he much preferred simple fare - but part of him wanted to cook something nice for their second official date.

Date.

The word scared him as much as it filled him with a prickly, nervous type of excitement. He didn’t have much experience with dating - Jack had simply moved in with them, and that was that. There hadn’t been much romance, not even in those glorious, golden months. Not that Mycroft had even thought about it, not back then. Sherlock had been more important, and in all honesty Mycroft had been so caught up in just living with someone who had been so perfect. He touched his lips, remembering.

The way Jack had held him, kissed him, laid with him. All of that was gone, and it would never come back. Mycroft closed his eyes. It wasn’t entirely bad, he thought. There had been the good, too. He tried to imagine Jack laying next to him, holding him, and frowned. It wasn’t Jack’s slender body next to him in his mind, nor his light blonde hair tousled with sleep.

It was a sturdier, stockier man, with silver hair and warm brown eyes. It was his strong arms around Mycroft, holding him close. His lips on Mycroft’s temple as they cuddled drowsily, trying to snag those last five minutes of sleep before they had to get up. Mycroft’s eyes flew open and he gripped the desk uncomfortably tight. His knuckles were white, his sore muscles screaming in pain until he finally let go. _No._

It wasn’t Jack that Mycroft thought of when he wanted comfort, when he wanted to remember something good. It was Greg. The way Greg held him when they were sitting in the kitchen that morning. The way he smiled at Mycroft when he thought Mycroft wouldn’t notice. The way he was always so careful, so gentle, handling Mycroft as if he would break - which was a ludicrous thought.

Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably. Thinking about it, what it meant, would require using words that he didn’t want to. Emotions and feelings that he desperately wanted to keep bottled up, no matter how much they fought to escape. _Maybe it is time_ , a treacherous part of his brain pointed out. It had been many years since Jack. It was time to move on. “Maybe,” Mycroft muttered to himself, shoving all thoughts of Greg out of his mind. He could worry about that tomorrow.

For now, he had work to do.

-

Anthea gave him a dirty look when she picked him up the next day. “You were supposed to take the day off,” she informed him.

“I did,” Mycroft said absently, watching the familiar scenery pass by. “Also, shall we not make stealing all my liquor a habit?” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, surprised to see a blithe smile instead of any sort of shame. She normally at least pretended to apologize.

“Working nine hours from home is not taking a day off.” She raised her eyebrows as if to invite any more stupid excuses.

He ignored her. “I shall be leaving the office at 3pm today.” Anthea looked at him, more interested now. “I have invited the DI over for a friendly dinner.”

“I shall take that into consideration, Sir.” Her expression betrayed the fact that she didn’t believe a word he said. Mycroft gave her a disapproving scowl (she smirked) and proceeded to spend the rest of the car trip shuffling papers around. “You have a meeting with the Prime Minister at 9, the Russian Delegation at 11, and finally, the German Ambassador at 12,” she said, scrolling down her phone’s screen.

“I finished the majority of the paperwork yesterday, so aside from the meetings and any potential debriefings…”

“You should be able to leave on time, yes.” Anthea smiled. It was the sort of smile that unnerved Mycroft a bit. It was a smile that said that there would be things happening to get him out on time that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know about. Anthea was a strong companion to have in one’s corner, but she also presented a formidable foe to anyone who opposed her.

Mycroft studiously ignored her as they stepped out of the car and headed into the office building. It was only on his floor that he stopped, reaching out to place his hand on her arm. She looked at him, curious. “Thank you,” he said softly. It was rare for him to show that sort of sentiment, to acknowledge anything of the sort, but he felt it was her due for going so far out of the way to ensure that he would be able to shirk his duties to fulfill social obligations.

“Anytime,” she said with a wide grin. Mycroft turned and headed for his office, ready to do everything that needed to be done. Although he doubted that Greg was going to show up - surely the DI had come to his senses - it was only polite to be prepared on the off chance he decided he had nothing better to do. Pushing that thought out of his mind, Mycroft got to work. He wouldn’t be able to find out if he wasn’t home.

-

Mycroft slid dinner into the oven, carefully ensuring that it was properly centered. He glanced up at Anthea who was leaning against the counter. “Forty five minutes?” she asked.

“Rotate it at each fifteen,” he confirmed.

“Will do.” She smiled at him and Mycroft felt the knot in his stomach relax slightly. He had been a nervous wreck since he left work at three. Anthea had taken one look at him and called the car, accompanying him on the way home without another word. She had helped him prepare the dinner, arrange the kitchen, and clean his home for the first time in far too long. He really needed to hire a maid service, but the thought of letting someone else in his home when he might not be there sent shivers up and down his spine. “Go change.” She flicked a hand at him, shooing him away.

Mycroft gave her a disapproving stare before turning and heading upstairs. She had volunteered to supervise the baking chicken while he changed into something more appropriate. He had spent a significant part of his distracted time after work dithering over his clothes. Anthea had rolled her eyes and ended up pointing to one of his more casual suits, informing him that that would be his attire for his date that night.

She had gotten so sassy lately, Mycroft thought. But he trusted her opinion and quietly changed into the suit she had suggested. It was a nice colour, a slate grey pinstripe, with a dark gray vest underneath and a red tie. His stomach fluttered uncomfortably as he glanced in the mirror to ensure that he looked suitable. He wasn’t quite sure why he was going to a significant level of effort when he doubted that Greg was going to show up.

Mycroft had spent most of his day purposefully avoiding the CCTV cameras, instructing Anthea to monitor them in his stead. He had received the usual reports on Sherlock’s behavior (getting into trouble, egged on by John Watson) but had told her to put DI Lestrade’s reports in writing and to file them away for later. They were to be perused at a less painful time, once Mycroft had gotten over his flight of folly and accepted that Greg was out of his life.

He glanced at the clock. It was approximately six fifty. Ten more minutes. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and headed downstairs. Anthea was still standing in the same place, flicking through her phone with one hand. She glanced up when she heard him enter the kitchen and gave him a critical glance. “Lose the jacket,” was the first thing she said. “Roll up your sleeves to your elbows. Lose the tie.”

“I don’t see why -” he started.

“It’s more relaxed,” she explained, pocketing her mobile. “It’s a casually cut suit, but this is a date, not a business meeting.”

Mycroft plucked at his sleeve for a moment, debating, and then gingerly unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off. He stared at Anthea challengingly. What did he do with it? It was an imbecilic question, Mycroft knew, but for some reason he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. His chest felt tight, and even breathing was difficult. “Pick a chair, any chair.” She looked pointedly at the multiple chairs in the kitchen. “Or you can put it in the closet.”

Carefully Mycroft settled the jacket over the back of a chair. Next he took out his cufflinks, placing them in one of the jacket pockets. His tie was next; this he did place in the closet, hanging it up so that it wouldn’t get wrinkled. Mycroft frowned at his shirt sleeves and then dutifully rolled them up. Anthea appeared next to him, tugging and fussing with the cuffs until they looked neat. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Might as well do it right. Sir.” She smiled blithely and then stepped back, looking him up and down. “Perfect.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened the refrigerator in order to check on tiramisu he had made for pudding. He glanced at the clock. Five minutes. He felt sick to his stomach, like he was going to throw up. Scowling at the wall, he shoved down the nerves. “It’s okay to be nervous, sir,” Anthea said, her attention back on her mobile.

“I’m not nervous,” Mycroft said, too quickly to be anything but a blatant denial. She looked up from her phone, studying him for a few moments, and offered him a faint smile.

“He’ll be here,” she said, her voice unusually kind. Silence spooled out between them. Mycroft could feel her eyes on him, seemingly nonchalant, but when he glanced at her he could see concern lurking in her expression. It felt like his stomach was tied in knots, like he could barely breathe. He couldn’t even smile. He was waiting for the ball to drop, for reality to hit and Greg not show up. The clock continued ticking and it moved closer and closer to seven pm. It was time to rotate the chicken, Mycroft realized. He donned the oven gloves and carefully rotated the pan, ensuring that it would cook evenly.

Mutely he pulled the gloves off and sat them to the side. _Six fifty nine._ Tick, tock. Mycroft couldn’t breathe. Anthea had abandoned all pretense of using her phone and was watching him intently. He was staring at something, he supposed, but he saw nothing. It felt like he was sinking, drowning, with nothing to hold him afloat.

At exactly seven pm, the doorbell rang. Anthea’s eyes flickered to him and then towards the door. “It must be a delivery,” Mycroft muttered, striding towards the door. He was grateful when Anthea didn’t say anything, allowing him to preserve what fragile hope he had. It couldn’t be Greg at the door, it simply couldn’t be, but Mycroft could not deny exactly how much he wanted it to be.

He opened the door to see Greg standing there, a bottle of wine in his hands. “Hello,” Greg said, meeting Mycroft’s eyes with a shy smile. He was dressed simply, in a nice pair of slacks and a button-down. It was oddly reminiscent of their first evening out, a meeting to discuss Sherlock and indirectly his future. Mycroft swallowed, staring at Greg with startled eyes. He had come. He hadn’t left. Greg glanced from Mycroft to someone behind him, presumably Anthea. “May I come in?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If you’re working, I could come back in a bit-” he started.

“No, not at all. Please, do enter.” Anthea gently tugged on Mycroft’s elbow, startling him. He came back to Earth, inclining his torso in a slight bow as Greg entered. Anthea carefully took the wine out of Greg’s hands, examining it intently. “Non-alcoholic,” she said, shooting a questioning look at the DI. Mycroft glanced between the two.

“I prefer to not drink alcohol,” Greg said with a shrug. “It’s not the greatest, but it’s not bad, either.”

Mycroft eyed the bottle as if it was something distasteful. Anthea caught his eye and frowned. “Thank you,” Mycroft said smoothly, catching on.

“I’ll be going.” Anthea looked at Greg, and even Mycroft flinched. It was one of her scarier expressions, an I-could-kill-you-with-one-finger look that Mycroft had become uncomfortably familiar with during the time they were away. It turned out to be surprisingly useful when resolving political emergencies. “About ten minutes for the chicken, sir.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks. Anthea gave him a warm smile, a genuine one, not the normally blithe, fake one she wore in front of other people. Then she was gone, closing the front door behind her. It was just him and Greg now, standing in the uncomfortable silence. The weight of their discussion the day before weighed heavily on Mycroft’s shoulders. He hadn’t expected Greg to show up. What did he do now that Greg had?

“Hello,” Greg said again, watching Mycroft curiously. Mycroft self-consciously adjusted his cuffs, glancing at the oven to confirm the time left, then at the refrigerator to ensure that it had not spontaneously combusted. He would look at Greg, all in good time. “Come here, you,” Greg murmured, stepping closer into Mycroft’s space, careful to telegraph his movements in advance. He tugged Mycroft close enough so that he could press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

Mycroft blinked, and then kissed Greg back, a shiver of delight running down his spine. It had been a long time since he had kissed someone while sober. Greg allowed him two more kisses before he pulled back, moving so that his forehead bumped Mycroft’s. He stared at Mycroft seriously, his brown eyes warm. “Did Anthea help you with dinner?” Greg asked.

Letting out a startled laugh, Mycroft straightened, breaking their eye contact. “Yes, she did.”

Greg smiled. “She’s a good cook.” Mycroft glanced at him, surprised. “She was the one who brought the food yesterday,” he explained. “Gave me some tips on what to make, what you might like.” Greg shrugged, self-conscious.

“It was a good meal.” Mycroft glanced at the clock, watching carefully so that he pulled the chicken and veg out when it was done. Only a few minutes left. Next was the two wine glasses. He poured the non-alcoholic wine into them, sniffing it and finding it not completely horrible. Those were placed onto the table, one at each place setting.

The chicken and veg was done, so Mycroft took it out, setting it on top of the stove to rest. He was aware of Greg’s eyes on him. It both made him nervous and provided some amount of comfort. He closed his eyes briefly, his hands on the counter, and felt for the bond between them. It was there, tethering them together, and Mycroft drew comfort from its presence. “Did you have a good day at work?” Greg asked, startling Mycroft.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, not turning to look at Greg. Instead he focused on slicing the chicken and transferring it and the veg to the plates. “And yourself?”

There was a pause, a startled one, before Greg spoke. “Er, it was normal, I guess. Sherlock nearly getting his arse kicked by my sergeant on a crime scene, John having to break up the fight before it escalated. Nothing new.” He offered Mycroft a smile, inviting him to share the joke. Mycroft stared back, deciding that at least some part of the story was a fib. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Mycroft asked stiffly.

“How my day went.” Greg watched Mycroft finish the plates. “I thought you had all the cameras?”

“Utilizing them is a misappropriation of government resources,” Mycroft started.

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” Greg studied Mycroft’s face, his brow furrowed in concentration. Mycroft felt oddly naked. He wanted his sleeves rolled down, wanted his jacket back - all the shields he had meticulously constructed were no help when he was not properly equipped. “You didn’t think I was coming, did you?”

Mycroft sat the plates down slightly harder than he should have, avoiding Greg’s gaze. “Dinner is ready.”

“Hey.” Greg’s words were a gentle chide. “Come here for a second.”

Mycroft hesitated for a split second and then moved into Greg’s personal space. “The food will get cold.”

“Worst case I’m sure you have a splendid oven to heat it back up,” Greg said with a reassuring smile.

Mycroft bit back a laugh. Greg smiled. Carefully Greg took Mycroft’s face in his hands and kissed him slowly and sweetly. Mycroft rested his hands on Greg’s sides, his eyes closed as he kissed back. Kisses were okay, Mycroft decided. They were non-committal. Or something. “I’m here,” Greg murmured against his lips. “I’m not leaving. So let’s relax, yeah?”

“I am relaxed,” Mycroft murmured back. Greg laughed and kissed him one last time. “I am,” Mycroft said indignantly. He scowled for a moment, watching Greg smile and settle at the table. Then he took his place at the table opposite Greg.

“Sure,” Greg teased. “So relaxed I’m afraid you might snap in two.” His smile was sweet and Mycroft felt his muscles loosen just a bit. He was afraid that he might even come to enjoy their evening, at this rate.

The moment Mycroft had the first bite on his fork, held just in front of his mouth, his phone made a quiet noise. Mycroft frowned, placing the fork down on the plate, and glanced at Greg, who was looking at him curiously. Normally Mycroft wouldn’t bother - anything important enough to interrupt his date and Anthea would come personally - but the noise signified it was she who had contacted him. “May I?” he asked Greg politely.

“Of course.” Greg smiled, digging eagerly into his chicken. “This is delicious,” he informed Mycroft.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly in thanks before pulling out his mobile, quickly flicking to the text she had sent. _Sherlock has broken into DI’s office to retrieve case file. A._ Placing the mobile on the table, Mycroft rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Of course Sherlock would notice that Greg was out of his office. “What’s wrong?” Greg leaned forward, genuinely concerned.

“You would not have been holding a file hostage from Sherlock, would you?” Mycroft inquired, mildly exasperated.

“That bastard broke into my office, didn’t he?” Greg placed his fork down and ran a hand through his hair.

“Quite possibly.” Mycroft briefly contemplated telling Anthea to stop him, but decided against it. That would simply cause more chaos. Tucking his mobile away, he picked his fork up and placed the chicken in his mouth. Not bad, Mycroft thought. It was quite flavourful. He looked up to see Greg watching him, amused.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he said conversationally, taking a sip of his wine between bites.

“The flavours present themselves quite nicely,” Mycroft agreed. He eyed his wine glass. The whole point of wine was to be alcoholic; Mycroft didn’t see how non-alcoholic wine was worthwhile in any way. Still, Greg had brought it, and it would not kill him to be polite. He had done far worse in the pursuit of politeness, anyway. Tentatively he lifted the wine glass to his lips and sipped it. It wasn’t quite as bad as he had expected. Not like alcoholic wine, but not completely intolerant on its own.

“I try not to drink any more,” Greg said when Mycroft looked at him.

“That includes a lack of any alcohol in your flat?” Mycroft inquired.

“Yes.” Greg watched him for a moment, observing his reaction. Mycroft simply continued eating. It wasn’t the end of the world, not really.

The room was quiet, with only the sounds of their eating breaking the near silence. Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He could handle political emergencies, negotiate with terrorists, ambassadors, and various syndicates - but he could not converse utilizing simple topics over dinner. He sighed internally. “I presume you shall be relocating?” Mycroft inquired, looking up at Greg nonchalantly. It was protocol, after all.

Greg nearly choked on his chicken. Mycroft frowned slightly. That wasn’t what he had expected. “What?”

“If the master bedroom is not to your liking, there are several guest rooms with various views that could be repurposed for mutual use,” Mycroft continued.

“Wait. Wait wait wait.” Greg held up a hand. “You’re talking about me moving in with you?”

Mycroft sat his utensils down, about halfway through dinner. “Of course.” He paused. “Is that a problem?”

“A bit.” Greg eyed his non-alcoholic wine as if he wished it was the real thing and then drained the rest of it. “Right.”

Mycroft felt like his stomach had twisted into knots, the food threatening to come back up. Had Greg simply come to - to end things? Did he not only have to stab Mycroft, but twist the knife? Mutely he drained his own glass, picking up the meal he could no longer finish and walking towards the sink. He felt like his heart had broken, like his world had shattered. Placing the plate by the sink, he nearly jumped when he felt arms wrap themselves loosely around him.

“Hey.” Greg sounded worried. “You look like someone just died.”

Someone did, Mycroft thought, the words cold and lonely in his mind. “Do forgive my presumptions.” He moved out of Greg’s grasp before turning and offering him a polite smile. “I shall not bother you in the future, with the exception of matters pertaining to Sherlock, and I am fairly certain Anthea can handle the majority of the issues as they should arrive-” Greg looked horrified. Mycroft wasn’t sure what exactly to make of such an expression, so he simply stopped talking. Maybe Greg didn’t want to hear any excuses, or maybe the thought of having to talk to Mycroft again down the road was simply too horrific to contemplate.

“Mycroft?” Greg frowned. “Are you kicking me out?”

Yes. “No, of course not,” Mycroft said smoothly. “But I do have to say that I see little point in you remaining here if you are intending to sever the minor tie between us.” He turned back towards the counter, fussed with something, anything. His hands were shaking. Distracting.

“What? When did I say that?” Mycroft wouldn’t turn and look at him. He couldn’t.

“When you mentioned that you do not wish to pursue a further relationship,” Mycroft said. He picked up a salt shaker (an elegant one, a gift from his mother, paired with a pepper shaker) and moved it a few centimetres, and then moved it back.

“I - Mycroft.” Greg sounded so plaintive, so heartfelt, that Mycroft almost turned at the sound of his voice. But he couldn’t. If he did, he would be lost, and the hurt would break him. He couldn’t take it, not again. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is what you said, is it not?” Mycroft inquired, his voice cold.

Greg sighed and somehow that hurt Mycroft even more. “You silly git.”

Mycroft bristled, turning around to give Greg a piece of his mind. “I do not -”

“Mycroft.” Greg looked at him, and something in his face made Mycroft stop mid-sentence. “Please, just listen to me.”

Mycroft studied him for a few moments. “You have thirty seconds.”

Greg smiled faintly, seemingly amused at Mycroft’s threat. “Just because I don’t want to move in with you doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Of course it does.”

“It really doesn’t. Mycroft, it’s problematic because I want this to be our decision. I want this to be our relationship, based on our choices.” Greg held his gaze, somehow. Mycroft wanted to look away, to run away, to be done with it all, but instead he stood there, rooted to the ground through the force of Greg’s look .”Why do you want me to move in?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply and closed it. Why? “It’s what is appropriate,” he eventually settled on.

“It’s what’s expected, isn’t that right?” Greg asked. Mycroft inclined his head slightly. That was true. It was how it had happened with Jack, how the books had said it - it was a happily ever after. That was simply how things were done. “Mycroft…” Greg struggled with what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it. “When you ask me to move in, I want it to be because you want to. Not because society tells you you are obligated to want me with you.”

“I want you to.” Mycroft frowned.

“Do you?” Greg asked, his eyes kind. “Look. Jack - He was your only relationship, right?”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. “I do not know what you are insinuating -” he started.

Greg ran a hand through his hair in what Mycroft presumed to be mild exasperation. “Nothing. It’s an honest question.”

Mycroft was able to look away. “Yes.” _And look how that turned out_ , he told himself. Maybe he should just give up now.

“I -” Greg struggled for words. “I know how your kind see me. I don’t hide my neck, I dated, even slept around a bit in college. I got married, got a divorce, and then I found you. I’ve been around the block a few times, yeah?”

Mycroft took note of a few of the more interesting bits of information. He needed to find those potential paramours and have them deported. Immediately. “I would consider your experience more worldly than mine in this small matter.”

Greg chuckled, then turned serious. “Look. I know even doing what we’re doing now is a stretch for you. And that’s okay. I don’t want to put any more stress on you, not now.” He smiled. “We’ve got these, yeah -” he touched the back of his neck - “But that doesn’t make everything happen at once.”

Mycroft stared at him, studying his face, his body, everything for even the smallest hint of a lie. He knew that he could call Anthea in and have her deal with the situation. He knew that if he told Greg to leave, Greg would leave without asking why. (Maybe. Mycroft wasn’t as sure on that as he preferred to be.) But nothing he saw showed any sort of falsehood. His eyes went distant, his mind skimming through the file he had read on Greg so long ago.

He didn’t want it to be true, not really. It meant giving up control, trusting someone else to lead what was - what could be, Mycroft corrected himself - an important part of his life. It was a commitment, a belief, a trust in another human being. He trusted Anthea, but that was trust based on years of close work. “Hey.” Greg’s voice pulled Mycroft out of his thoughts. “You don’t have to trust me. Just - don’t run?” He reached out, took one of Mycroft’s hands in his, and squeezed it.

It was an oddly intimate gesture. Mycroft looked down at their joined hands and then back at Greg. “I am amenable to such a suggestion,” he said, glancing away. There were emotions, feelings - things he could not handle, not now. Ruthlessly he shoved them away. “Regardless, I do believe I have sufficiently disrupted dinner.” He had the sense to look mildly apologetic. Greg’s plate was still half full.

“Remember that fantastic oven of yours I mentioned?” Greg asked, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “I think it needs some use.” Mycroft smiled at his conspiratorial tone. “Then, after dinner, we can watch a movie on the telly.”

_Jack curled up against him, Sherlock sitting on the floor, mostly asleep, as the movie flashed across the screen. “I think you’ll like this one,” Jack murmured, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s middle._

_“I doubt that,” Mycroft teased._

“Or not,” Greg said, drawing Mycroft back to reality. Mycroft could feel how he had gone tense, and his hands trembled, just for a moment.

“No,” Mycroft said, surprising himself. “I would like to.” He felt dizzy, light-headed. His memories had not been that clear for a long time, not unless he was drunk.

Very carefully Greg drew Mycroft into a hug. Mycroft pressed his face into the crook of Greg’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Greg was here, Mycroft told himself. It was Greg, not Jack. Time had moved forward, not backwards. “If you need to talk - about anything, mind you - let me know, yeah?” Mycroft hesitated. “It’s important,” Greg said softly.

A small nod was all that Mycroft could manage, but Greg broke out into a wide smile. “Excellent.” They stood there, holding each other, for several long minutes, both reluctant to let go. Eventually Mycroft straightened, fussing with his cuffs as a pretense for avoiding eye contact. “Do you know how to work the oven?” Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked. “It is not often that I am able to take advantage of the kitchen,” he said.

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh. “Figures you’d have a kitchen this gorgeous and not use it,” he teased.

Mycroft frowned and then relaxed slightly, realizing that Greg was not serious. “Maybe…” he trailed off, hesitating. “Maybe you could teach me.”

Greg glanced at him, surprised, and then his face broke into a wide smile. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I’d like that,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft felt like he was flying and falling, all at the same time. “Me, too.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy. :D
> 
> Ch 12 will go up within the week~

Mycroft stared at Greg’s number in his phone. It was just a text, he reminded himself. It wasn’t anything dangerous. He much preferred a phone call, but Anthea was already packing his bags and they were supposed to be out the door in approximately two minutes. Very carefully he typed in the words. _‘Traveling for work. Might be able to call sporadically. MH’_  He sent it to Greg and then tucked the mobile in his pocket.

“Here, Sir,” Anthea said, passing him his bag.

He nodded his thanks and led their way down to the waiting car. It was a short trip to the airport, broken only by the occasional buzzing of his mobile. He rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Opening the texts, he frowned. It wasn’t Sherlock like he had thought it would be.

_‘Can I text you? GL’_   
_‘Or maybe email. Would that be better? GL’_

His phone buzzed again.

_‘Ignore me, I’m an idiot. GL’_

Mycroft stared at his mobile. It wasn’t what he expected. He had not even expected an acknowledgment. It had been both a desire to not have Sherlock show up in his home again and a reminder of common courtesy that had fueled the thought to tell Greg he was traveling. “Anthea, set up an encrypted email address for the Detective Inspector.”

She nodded, her fingers flying on the small keyboard of her phone. “Right away, Sir.”

He gathered his courage. Why was he so nervous? It was a bloody text. He would have scowled if it wasn’t so undignified. _‘Anthea shall be texting you an email address with which you can reach me, should you prefer. MH’_

Thirty seconds later his phone buzzed his hand. _‘So no texts then? GL’_

Mycroft couldn’t help a smile. _‘Since you text so neatly, I suppose I shall allow it. MH’_

He went to put the phone away and stopped when it went off. _‘Good. Means I can keep dazzling you with my flawless texting skills. GL’_

_‘Are you trying to seduce me, Detective Inspector? MH’_ Mycroft looked up to see Anthea watching him, her eyebrows raised.

“I won’t be monitoring the secure email, then?” she asked, amused.

“Of course not.” Mycroft frowned, demonstrating his displeasure at the thought.

_‘It’d be pointless to seduce you when you’re not actually here. GL’_

Mycroft considered that for a moment. That could very well be true. Not that he would really know. _‘I suppose. You should probably not waste your time talking to me, then. MH’_

The reply came almost immediately. Absently Mycroft wondered exactly what Greg was doing that allowed him to text so freely. _‘Talking to you is never a waste of time. GL’_

Mycroft didn’t think about why that thought both scared him and made him feel warm inside. He didn’t have time to think about such spurious claims. _‘So you say now. MH’_

_‘Always. GL’_

“Sir, time to board.” Anthea’s phone was nowhere to be seen, Mycroft noted absently as she pushed the door of their car open.

Mycroft nodded, pocketing his phone. It would remain on, but only the most important calls would be allowed through. However, he would have access to his laptop. “The secure email has been set up,” Anthea told him.

“You will not be required to monitor it,” he said dryly, amused at her roguish smile.

“What if I’m concerned about your wellbeing, Sir?” she inquired.

“On the plane with you.” He flapped a hand at her and she led the way.

Once they were settled inside, Mycroft stowed his belongings away in preparation for takeoff. As soon as the aeroplane was in the sky he pulled his laptop out and turned it on. There was the necessary security to allow him to get work done, and he wasn’t one to spend his time idly.

The first thing he did was check the email address that Anthea had set up. Already there was an email waiting for him, from Greg. Mycroft’s stomach did a pleasant flip.

_‘Hi Mycroft._

_Is hi too casual? Do you prefer hello? Probably should have gone more formal. Not like I can’t change it. Now I’m rambling in our first official email. Right._

_Nothing too interesting here. Cases are too boring to keep Sherlock interested, so we’re having to work them on our own. I think we’re going to get a break soon on this domestic case that we’ve been working for a couple weeks now. The rest are fairly straightforward, we just have to finish processing the evidence._

_Probably shouldn’t be putting this in writing, but I figure this is more secure than any email server I could use at the Yard. Anthea had to explain the instructions three times. It’s like entering a bloody electronic vault. But you probably already know that since you probably do this all the time._

_I’m going to end this before I make an even bigger fool of myself._

_Safe travels,_

_Greg’_

Mycroft stared at the email, uncertain as to whether he should laugh or not. It was very much like Greg had written anything and everything that had come to mind, without apparently realizing the invention of the backspace key. It wasn’t like Mycroft minded, not really. Greg’s email was a manifestation of his personality. Mycroft hit reply, trying not to be intimidated.

_‘Hello Greg,_

_I am not particular as to the manner of greeting. Although, as demonstrated, I do tend to utilize ‘hello’ as my salutation of choice. I do appreciate your verbosity, and it has made me smile even though I cannot actually hear your voice._

_It sounds as if work has been particularly satisfying, and I do hope that you receive the ‘break’ in your case that you desire. Sometime in the future, if you so desire, I could glance over a case on Sherlock’s behalf. He is not the only one with acute observational skills._

_Yes, this email address is secure with the tightest encryption available to our modern day society, so you do not have to worry about it being intercepted. It is also not being monitored by anyone but myself, so there are no concerns along that line of inquiry. In the future I shall ensure that she provides written directions in order to allow easier access to secure lines of communication._

_You did not, as you wrote, ‘make a fool out of yourself’. On the contrary, I found your email to be an amusing respite from the multiple days of work I have to accomplish in the immediate future._

_I shall travel safely. I do hope your work proceeds as you desire._

_MH’_

He read it over again, assuring himself that it did not sound unduly formal, and then sent it off. Then he pulled his encrypted program up and got to work. There was much he had to accomplish before they arrived at their destination, and it wouldn’t do to be unprepared.

-

It was three grueling days later before Mycroft was able to check his mobile, let alone his laptop. Too tired to pull up his computer screen, he scrolled through his email and saw a longer reply and a short message sent just a few hours prior. It was a struggle to focus his tired eyes on the tiny screen.

_‘Hi Mycroft,_

_Hope things are going well._

_We got the break. Suspect arrested and we’re going to court in just over a week._

_Greg’_

It was a testament to Mycroft’s exhaustion that it took him a few moments to realise that Greg was talking about their previous email. He tapped out a brief reply ( _Yes, thanks_ , adding that he was pleased to see a resolution to Greg’s dilemma) before plugging the phone into its charger, rolling over, and going to sleep.

-

The next day he was able to send a text; there wasn’t enough time to read the longer email. _‘I hope you are doing well. MH’ Simple and to the point. He rather liked it._

Greg responded within the hour, at a time Mycroft could check his phone. _‘Sherlock’s helping on a new case. Lots of paperwork. Never fun. Hope things are better on your end. GL’_

Mycroft smiled. _‘Not by much, I’m afraid. Meetings and paperwork are their own circle of hell. MH’_

_‘Meetings AND paperwork? There’s not enough coffee in the world for that. GL’_

_‘No coffee, I’m afraid. Just tea. Not very pleasant tea, either. MH’_

_‘How can they expect you to function without tea? GL’_

_‘Barbaric, isn’t it? But needs must. MH’_

He sipped another cup of the tea and made a face. Next time he would have to bring his own. Anthea was next to him, looking haggard. It wasn’t likely to improve over the next several days, now that they had to sleep in shifts. “I’ll sleep first tonight,” he said, waiting for a nod. With the time difference and their shifts, that meant he would be awake when Greg woke up.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthea said, inclining her head slightly. Then she turned back to her own work and the two fell quiet.

It was a week and a handful of text exchanges later before Mycroft returned home. He was thankful that there was no one waiting for him in his home, not even Greg. It would have required more energy than he could have summoned on two hours of sleep in the past five days. Instead, he was able to go upstairs, change into something comfier, crawl into bed, and fall steadily into oblivion.

He woke up twelve hours later, exhausted and jetlagged. His muscles were sore and he tried not to wince as he made his way to the bathroom. There was no Greg to bring him paracetamol, not this time. He was on his own. It was unsettling to Mycroft that part of him missed the other man, wanted him close enough so that he could do simple little things like provide painkillers or water.

Pushing the thought from his mind, Mycroft slowly made it downstairs. Then it dawned on him that he would have to make his own breakfast, too. This time he scowled at the wall, wanting to swear but not having the energy. His house felt empty, without Greg. It wasn’t something Mycroft liked, wasn’t something he approved of, but it didn’t seem to be something he could change, either.

Settling for a bagel, Mycroft sat at the table, his mobile in one hand. He scrolled through the various emails and messages he had missed while sleeping. Work had been all-consuming and he had not gotten a chance to go back to the longer email Greg had sent. Mycroft pulled it up and couldn’t help a smile as he read. Greg’s enthusiasm was palpable, even through electronic messaging. He had expressed a desire to learn more about Mycroft’s deduction skills and agreed with Mycroft’s plan to provide written directions next time.

There had also been a rather entertaining story about one of Greg’s scene techs taking an accidental dive into a dumpster. Mycroft chuckled to himself and then sat his phone aside. He planned to call the DI later in the day, once he was more composed. Replying to the emails wasn’t an immediate necessity.

Mycroft finished eating and did the washing up, drying them with the tea towel and putting them away. He stared at his mobile. Did he have to call Greg? No, not yet.

Instead he spent the rest of his morning rearranging his collection of movies, alphabetizing his collection of music, and generally picking up his home. It was still relatively clean after their date a few weeks ago, but Mycroft had learned that keeping it neat was easier than a deep clean. Eventually he ran out of things to do and returned to the kitchen. It was ridiculous that calling Greg made him nervous, he told himself. Greg was harmless. Mycroft felt affection for him. Therefore, he shouldn’t be nervous.

Despite his best efforts, his stomach flipped as he punched in Greg’s number. As the phone rang, he could feel himself growing more anxious. “Hello?” said the voice on the other line.

“Greg,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I hope to find you well.”

“Mycroft.” Greg seemed pleased. Mycroft couldn’t help a smile. “You’re home, then?”

“Yes,” he said. “I wanted to apologise for not promptly returning your emails. It was quite a busy time.”

He could hear Greg grin through the phone. “I understand what it’s like to be busy with work,” Greg assured him. “Since you’re home, how about I take you out for dinner?”

Mycroft’s stomach did a flip. “I would be amenable to your suggestion,” he replied. “Do you have a destination in mind?”

“There’s a neat little pub not far from my flat,” Greg said. Mycroft could hear him fussing with his diary. “Does Thursday at seven work for you?”

Mycroft made a mental show of checking his calendar. “Yes, I believe that it does.”

“Excellent. Do you want to meet there, or I could come pick you up, or?” Greg tapped his pencil against his desk.

“I believe meeting would be an acceptable solution, for I am likely to be at work until not long before the aforementioned time,” Mycroft said smoothly.

“Sounds good to me.” Greg closed his diary decisively. Then there was a noise, and Mycroft heard someone enter. “Hold on a sec,” Greg told Mycroft. “Sally, what do you need?”

The noise was muffled; Greg must have tucked the phone underneath his chin. Mycroft heard a woman’s voice, apologetic and wary. Then Greg’s, louder and angrier than he had expected. “I’m sorry, sir,” he heard the woman - Sally - say.

There was a loud crash, as if Greg had shoved all of the contents of his desk onto the floor. “Sorry?” Mycroft heard Greg say, incredulous. “Sorry?!” Greg said again, nearly shouting. “All that work and we couldn’t get a bloody conviction?” He was snarling now, angry and frustrated. Mycroft couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “Mycroft, I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday, at seven. Bye.”

The line went dead.

Mycroft stared at the wall for a long time after the call ended.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it is my birthday and I am a kind and benevolent fanfic overlord, I decided to release Ch12.
> 
> (That and I'm an impatient sod who's been wanting to release it since Ch11 went out. Hmph.)

It was habit that had Mycroft searching through his cupboards, through his wardrobe, anywhere and everywhere that he might possibly have alcohol. He needed something, anything to help him escape. It was all that was stopping him from running away, from crawling into his bed and pretending that none of the past six months had ever happened. No matter how hard he looked there was nothing. Anthea had done a thorough job of removing all liquor from his flat and he just hadn’t brought any more in.

Thursday was just two days away. Mycroft felt sick to his stomach. He was going to see Greg, and Greg was going to be angry, and - well, Mycroft knew where that went. He would just make it worse and Greg would be even more angry. At least they would be in public and Greg could only harm him so much. It was the words Mycroft was afraid of. Physical pain could be endured, but experience had taught him how deep words cut.

He felt defeated. Broken. He had gotten his hopes up, had thought Greg was different. He really wasn’t. It was just a matter of time before Greg lost his temper with Mycroft and showed his true colours. He didn’t even know why he was surprised. All of Greg’s prior sweetness, all of his playful flirting - it was a mask, just like Jack’s. Mycroft was certain.

If he didn’t know that Anthea would throw him out the moment he showed up, he would have gone into work instead. He didn’t want to be at home, surrounded by memories. Even just standing in the living room there were memories. The last time he had come home after a long time away at work he had talked to Sherlock, with Greg lurking unseen in the background. Then he had gone upstairs, and Greg had been there the next morning.

Mycroft’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t go to his bedroom, couldn’t go to the kitchen. He didn’t want to think about Greg. Instead he wanted to push the DI from his mind. Abruptly he turned and walked up the stairs, past his bedroom, past one of his guest rooms, and into the room at the far end of the hall. No one had slept there, not in a long time, and that was what Mycroft wanted.

Although he wasn’t tired, not after sleeping so much the night before, he crawled onto the bed and laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. There were no memories of Greg there, not in the room or on the bed or - anywhere. But still, Mycroft’s brain lingered. Thought about the way Greg had kissed him, the gentle way he had touched him, the playful texts and rambling emails. The hope that Mycroft had felt when he thought that maybe, just maybe, Greg would be different.

It was shocking how painful reality was when one wasn’t prepared for it. Mycroft had allowed himself to hope and he was paying the price. His mind whirled and spun, going in circles. Everything that had happened was playing in his mind. His skin crawled, breathing was difficult - he couldn’t stand it. It was too much. He couldn’t bear to think of Greg any more.

He stood and grabbed his mobile. Ignoring the texts from Greg - he couldn’t look at them but didn’t want to delete them, either - he texted his driver, summoning a car. Then he headed downstairs and outside the door. He didn’t care that Anthea would be monitoring his purchases, would know what he got. Probably even know why. None of that mattered.

Mycroft had his driver drop him off a few streets from the liquor store he wanted. It was rare that he purchased his drinks on his own, but he no longer cared. He smiled, made the necessary conversation, and got enough alcohol to last him for a while. Maybe he could even talk Anthea into giving back what she had taken - the scotch was expensive, after all. He paid for his purchase, loaded it into a discreet bag, and headed back outside.

When he got in the car, Anthea was sitting there, tapping away on her phone. She looked immaculate, as usual, and ignored his glare. “Hello, Sir.”

“I do not need to be babysat,” Mycroft said sharply.

“No, you don’t.” Anthea looked at him. “I thought you might like company, is all.” She leaned down and picked up a bag, showing him the insides. It held the remainder of his alcohol collection along with a couple six-packs of an elegant beer that he had seen before but didn’t recognize. Her face twisted into a mixture of sadness and remorse. It was rare that her face showed such emotion, and Mycroft wasn’t sure what to think. “You’re not the only one that wants to get drunk.”

Mycroft studied her intently, and then decided that it didn’t matter, not now. She was entitled to her privacy. “How did you know?” he asked.

Anthea looked out the window, her mobile in her lap. “You’re not the only one who takes an interest in the going-ons of the Yard.”

Mycroft scanned his memory. Anthea had been single the majority of the time in his employ, but he knew she had a mark, was a First. He also knew that she had dallied with those not her soulmate, and she had clearly demonstrated a preference. Who in the Yard would - “The Detective Sergeant?”

Anthea smiled faintly. “Yes.” She didn’t say anything further, and Mycroft didn’t pressure her. There was no point in it. If she felt comfortable talking to him, she would.

When he glanced outside they were already back at his home. He raised his bag to Anthea in a mock salute and opened the door. She got out her side, her mobile in one hand and the bag of his alcohol in the other. “After you, Sir.”

He led the way up the path and opened the door, letting her go first. It didn’t hurt as much to be home when she was there. The feelings were muted, in the background. She took his bag and deposited the both of them on the coffee table, pulling out the bottles and placing them on top. The beer she placed closest to the sofa. “Where do we start?” Mycroft mused, surveying their collection.

“Want to get drunk fast or slow?” Anthea asked, her voice wry. She tapped the liquor and the beer in turn, demonstrating his options.

“Fast,” Mycroft said.

“Excellent choice,” Anthea declared. Mycroft looked at her.

“You’re tipsy already.”

“I might have had a six pack.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Scotch, bourbon, tequila - what do you drink?” Mycroft waved a hand at the large assortment of alcohol in front of them. The higher the alcohol content, the better.

“I’ll stick with beer for now.” Anthea picked a six-pack up and plunked it by her feet. “I’d go for the scotch, for you.”

“Last time I did this I drank two bottles of wine,” Mycroft mused, pouring himself a scotch.

“I remember.” Anthea chuckled, opening one of the beers and taking a swig. She settled on the couch, kicking off her heels and tucking her feet up underneath her. “You were quite drunk.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, leaning back and sipping his drink. Maybe a shot or two first would be a good idea, but he did not want to go get the glasses. So instead he knocked back his first glass of scotch, feeling it burn pleasantly as it went down his throat. Neither of them spoke, not yet. They weren’t drunk enough for that.

He drank another glass of scotch just as quickly, starting to feel it already. Except for the bagel he had eaten that morning his stomach was empty. He probably wouldn’t require much more to be completely inebriated. Pouring himself another scotch, he drank it slower this time. Sips instead of gulps. “You were listening to the call?” he asked, studying the amber liquid in his glass.

“Yeah.” Anthea had finished her first beer and was on to the second, alternating long drinks with staring morosely at the far wall. “I could hear it from Sally’s office.”

Mycroft glanced at her. “You were in her office?”

“In a way.” Anthea sighed. “I was on the phone with her. She’s right next to Greg, and they both shout loudly.”

“So why -” Mycroft gestured vaguely at the alcohol, at where they were sitting.

“We were fighting.” Anthea smiled faintly. “Again.”

Mycroft frowned, and this time he did look Anthea over, looking for any potential injuries. For all that he knew she could take care of herself, he also knew how pervasive some situations could get. She waved a hand at him, brushing off his concern. “Nothing like that. Mostly shouting. Or ignoring each other.” Her smile turned slightly bitter. “She likes work as much as I do.”

“Are you.” Mycroft paused, gesturing to the back of his neck. “That?” He was pleased with his lack of coherency. The alcohol was kicking in quite nicely.

“Yeah.” She took another drink. “Yeah, we are.”

“How long?” He poured himself another drink. The world was fuzzy around the edges, now, and he felt slightly woozy. Words were more difficult, thoughts more so. He couldn’t focus on anything but Anthea, but her problem, and that was nice.

She waved a hand. “Dunno. Too hard to think. Not longer than - you two, though.”

Greg’s words snuck into his mind, unbidden. “Just because you have them -” he pointed to her neck - “Doesn’t make it easy.”

She drained her beer and then grabbed a new one. “It doesn’t.”

Mycroft switched to beer, deciding that the slightly lower alcohol concentration was better to ensure that he wasn’t sick the next day. He sipped it, surprised. “Not bad.”

“I wouldn’t bring you crap,” Anthea said. “Sir.”

“Of course not.” He raised his beer for a toast, held it in a slightly trembling hand.

She clicked her beer against his. The bottles rang in the otherwise silent room. “Is it worth it, you think?” she asked, sipping her beer. “Knowing them?”

Mycroft took a drink and ran a hand through his hair, ignoring how the movement made it stand oddly. It didn’t hurt, thinking about it when the world was so fuzzy. Thinking about them. The touch of Jack’s arm around him as they sat outside on the steps, watching the world pass by. The feeling of Greg kissing him, holding him, caring. The pain as Jack slapped him across the face, as he shouted at him, told him he would never amount to anything. The sound of Greg pushing everything off his desk in his anger. What was coming, the next time they saw each other.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. He didn’t.

“Me either.” Anthea took another drink, then sighed. She was silent for a while, not that Mycroft minded. The quiet was companionable with her, especially while drunk. Neither of them had to speak, but they chose to. “It’s my fault that we fight,” she said, staring at her beer.

Mycroft’s heart clenched. That he didn’t mind, no. It was the suffocating, the trapped feeling whenever he thought about what was to come. “Why?” he asked instead. It was a conversation best had not sober.

“I’m gone a lot. When I’m home I’m at work the rest of the time.” She shrugged. “When I don’t work, she works. We never have time for each other.” Anthea paused. “Not that it’s your fault. I choose to go into work.”

Mycroft reached out and awkwardly patted her shoulder. They never really touched each other, not outside of work, when protection was of utmost importance and sometimes Mycroft got pushed around to keep him safe. Other times work required long periods of sitting in close quarters, pressed up against in each other in an attempt to not be heard by those outside. It was the kind of field work that Mycroft particularly despised. She smiled at him, partially tipsy and partially grateful.

“The marks are a blessing and a curse,” Anthea said languidly, finishing her beer and grabbing a new one.

He sighed. “That is the truth.” Absently he rubbed the back of his neck, the mark there. What bound him to Greg. What made his life easier and harder, all at the same time. “You are in charge of security detail on - Thursday,” he told her, navigating the words as best as he could. They were difficult, now, after all that alcohol.

She nodded. “Yes, Sir.” For a brief moment she was an employee, not a - friend. Was she a friend? Mycroft frowned slightly. What, exactly, was she?

“Are we friends?” he asked, turning to look at her. She blinked, sipped her beer, and then looked thoughtful.

“Dunno.” Anthea considered this for a moment. “Guess so.”

“Oh.” Mycroft finished his beer. Debated another one, and decided against it. He was sleepy already, his mind pleasantly fuzzy. It wasn’t as scary with someone else there. He trusted Anthea with his life on a daily basis, after all. “So - what are you planning to do about - your -” He waved his hand, uncertain how to title Anthea’s - Sally. The DS. Whatever. Whoever.

Anthea hummed and placed her empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “Try.” She glanced at him with an apologetic smile. “Make time for her. Communicate.” She made a face. “Talk to her.”

“That sounds like fun,” Mycroft said wryly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What about you?” Anthea inquired. She looked serious now, or as serious as a mostly-drunk person could look. The expression was almost comical. He was as drunk as she was.

Mycroft shrugged. It was an oddly casual gesture, he knew, but it felt right. “It is my fault,” he said, his voice quiet. Words were difficult, despite his drunken state. “I deserve it.”

Anthea waved a finger in his face. “Nope.” He looked at her, frowning. “If he hurts you, I’ll - I’ll - throw him out a window.” She chuckled. “Sally might find it funny.”

“You’re going soft, throwing him out a window,” Mycroft teased. She pushed him, and he laughed for the first time in a long time. It was nice, just sitting with her. She was comfortable, safe and security. He trusted her implicitly. It made sense, after everything they had been through together. “I wish,” he started, waving a hand towards his neck. “I wish it had been you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Eww. No offense, Sir. But.”

He looked down his nose at her, mock-serious. The alcohol and her friendship had done wonders on his inhibitions. “Am I that bad?”

“Not exactly my type, is all.” She grinned. “And you don’t mean it, not really.”

“Yes, I do.” Mycroft frowned at her.

“You don’t, not really.” She patted his shoulder, far less awkwardly than his clumsy attempt at comfort. “Mycroft - don’t glare at me, you git. Everything worth having, you have to work for.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I said don’t glare at me.” Daring, she reached out and pushed his forehead with a finger. “It wrinkles your forehead.”

He scowled now. How unprofessional. Reaching out, Mycroft pushed her shoulders, grumbling when she laughed. “Maybe I do not deserve happiness. Maybe it is not in the cards for me.”

She made a face. “You sound like a broken record.” This time she poked his nose and Mycroft elbowed her side. She jabbed a finger in his ribs, the movement dulled by his many layers of clothes. “Mycroft, you deserve happiness like everyone else. Greg doesn’t want to hurt you. He won’t.” She shrugged. “If he does, I’m five seconds away and I can break him like a twig.” She mimed snapping a branch with her hands.

“That’s oddly comforting,” he said dryly. She shifted, moving so that she was facing him with her legs tucked up underneath her, pointing towards the arm of the sofa.

“I took out six guys last time,” Anthea pointed out, mock-offended.

“Yes, but you needed my help to take out the seventh.” Mycroft grinned, feeling light-headed and relaxed, dizzy but happy. He attributed it to the alcohol, to Anthea’s company.

“One whole man.” She pretended to look impressed. “You hate field work.”

“That’s because I have you to do most of it.” He startled when she slid closer, bumped his shoulder with hers.

“What would your friends think, knowing you needed to be protected by a woman?” she said, mock-concerned.

“That’s rather the point.” He stared at her as she laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

“Don’t be a git,” she chided, yawning. “I’m tired and your bony shoulder is more comfortable than the sofa.”

“I do not have bony shoulders,” he protested.

“You do.” Anthea patted his arm. “It’s okay.”

Mycroft scowled, but he, too, was tired. He considered it for a moment before he laid his head on hers, struggling to stay awake. “If you tell me I have a bony head, you are fired.”

“You can’t fire me,” Anthea said, yawning halfway through her sentence.

“Yes I can.” This time Mycroft yawned.

“Sure.” She yawned again.

He frowned, fighting another yawn. “Stop it.”

“Go to sleep,” she ordered, arranging herself so that she was comfy tilted against him.

He did.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!! School's been kicking my arse. The next chapter is written, just needs to be edited, but I'll be out of town for most of the week so I don't expect it to be posted until at least Sunday. I'll see what I can do. :)
> 
> Enjoy~

"I'll be monitoring the situation the entire time," Anthea said, her focus on the mobile in her hand. "I'll be less than three minutes away."

"I doubt your interference will be necessary," Mycroft said, checking his suit in the mirror.

Anthea smiled. He could see her in the mirror, standing right behind him. "I understand, Sir."

He turned, having ensured that he looked neat and well-composed. "Thank you," he said, not looking at her. It wasn't normal for him to say thank you, but it seemed the right thing to do in their current situation.

Anthea nodded slightly and didn't say anything. Mycroft appreciated that. "The car is outside. The driver is aware of your destination, and of the contingency plans we discussed."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and picked up his umbrella before sedately walking out of the building and getting into the waiting car. He wasn't in any sort of rush to meet Greg, not with how much he was dreading the evening to come. As it was Mycroft wasn't certain that he would be able to eat when they arrived at their destination. His stomach was churning, and his gut felt like it was twisted in knots from nerves. What if Greg was still angry? What if Greg shouted at him in public? Anthea was on standby, that was true, but there was much that Greg could do before she arrived.

The car trip was over far too quickly for Mycroft’s liking. The small pub that Greg had suggested was relatively close. Gripping his umbrella tightly, he stepped out of the car and glanced around. Greg was standing near the entrance, glaring daggers at his mobile as his thumbs moved over the keys. From the speed of the typing and Greg's expression, Mycroft guessed that Greg was either texting Sherlock or Sally. Since Sherlock had not been involved in his recent cases, Mycroft guessed that it had to do with the phone conversation he had overheard the other day. He swallowed thickly. How would Greg react to his presence?

Mycroft put a smile on his face and strode forward. "Greg," he said pleasantly, stopping less than a metre away from the DI. What was the appropriate greeting, after that? What was Greg expecting? A hug? A kiss? Neither of those options particularly appealed to Mycroft, especially not in public.

"Mycroft." Greg tucked away the phone, smiling at the politician. It was a warm smile, a gentle one - not what Mycroft had been expecting. He didn’t seem angry. "You look nice."

Instinctively Mycroft resisted the urge to check hs appearance in the window, to ensure that his suit was as neat as possible. "You look quite nice, as well," he said. It was true. Greg was dressed neatly, even if he did look fresh from work. Black slacks and a nice button-up, plus he had put some effort into his hair. "Not much time at home?" Mycroft tilted his head, trying to telegraph that he was curious and not instigating.

"Yeah," Greg admitted. "We had to - well, it doesn't matter." He waved a vague hand. "Let's go inside, yeah?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, deferring to Greg and allowing him to lead. Greg smiled at him again and then led the way inside. Mycroft took a deep breath and followed.

They ended up in a small booth off to the side, near enough to the bar that Greg didn't have to travel a wide distance to get drinks but not so near that it was noisy or that their conversation risked being overheard. "How was work?" Greg asked once he had come back from the bar, drinks in hand. He had soda, something non-alcoholic, and Mycroft had water. Mycroft had decided against alcohol, the memory of waking up with a pounding hangover far too fresh. Neither he nor Anthea had drank enough water to stave off of the headache the morning after and they had spent most of the day glaring at each other and avoiding any significant noise.

"It has not changed," Mycroft said, forcing himself to smile at Greg before looking down at the menu. Greg seemed cheerful, that was true, but Mycroft knew it was merely a mask. He was waiting for it to slip, for Greg to snap, and for his life to be the same as it was before. They were quiet, at least a minute passing before Mycroft glanced up to see Greg perusing the menu, seemingly unaffected. "Has - has the situation resolved itself?" Mycroft asked, faltering slightly. He berated himself for it. It was not okay to slip up like that. Certainly Greg would notice that something was wrong. It wasn't Greg's fault that Mycroft had failed to be what Greg needed.

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry about shouting like that. That case we had a break in? We're having trouble with some of the evidence, and it's going to be a bear to take to court." Mycroft lifted his head to see Greg studying him, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. Mycroft inwardly swore. Greg was perceptive, he could tell there was something Mycroft was not saying. The DI leaned forward and quietly placed his hand on Mycroft's. "Mycroft - this is probably silly. But I wasn't angry at you, yeah? I'm not upset with you in any way."

"Of course not." Mycroft patted Greg's hand awkwardly. Of course he was, but he wasn't going to admit it. He probably didn't even realize it himself. "I thank you for your concern, however."

Greg studied Mycroft for a few moments, still frowning, and then nodded, picking up his menu. "I recommend their burgers," he said, his expression shifting from somber to sinful.

Mycroft frowned at the thought of eating a burger in a three-piece suit. Maybe he should have dressed more casually. "I shall take your recommendations into consideration," he said absently, setting aside the menu. Greg took their orders and came back with more soda for him and water for Mycroft. They were drinking the most boring drinks in the pub.

"They have good food," Greg said, steepling his hands and placing his chin on his linked fingers. 

"I shall take your word for it," Mycroft said with a faint smile. It seemed too much effort to try hard, to give Greg what he wanted. Part of Mycroft was waiting for the first blow, the first insidious words that would snake inside his mind and sit there, tormenting him. Part of Mycroft was willing to wait and see. Maybe Greg wasn't as bad as Mycroft thought he was.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked. His concern itched, scratched - it was wrong, it wasn’t right, and Mycroft was tired of it.

"Yes, fine," Mycroft said, his voice a touch acerbic. He pinched the bridge of his nose. No. That was the kind of behavior that got him in trouble. He scolded himself internally. It was unacceptable to act like that. "Apologies," he said, truly regretful. If Greg scolded him, or yelled at him, Mycroft could no longer argue that he didn't deserve it. He had treated Greg in an unacceptable way, which meant Greg was free to do whatever he felt was necessary.

"It's alright," Greg said, smiling. "I know a bad day at work always leaves me on edge." He patted Mycroft's hand briefly. Mycroft had to stop himself from following, from placing his hand on Greg's. He liked the contact, missed it, but didn't feel that it was appropriate in public. What if someone saw them? It could place Greg's life in danger.

"There was no excuse for my behaviour," Mycroft assured him, taking a sip of water from his glass and momentarily not looking at Greg. When he turned his gaze back to Greg he saw that Greg looked puzzled.

"Of course there is," Greg said, frowning. "Mycroft, it's okay to snap sometimes. It's human."

"It was unacceptable," Mycroft said, fussing with the napkin and placing it on his lap. He didn't like the tone of the conversation or where it was going. He didn't know what Greg wanted or why he was saying such ludicrous things.

Greg watched him for a few moments longer but didn't say anything. Instead, Mycroft had the odd impression that he was saddened by what Mycroft had said. Utterly ludicrous, Mycroft knew, but he could not deny the slight slump in Greg's posture, the softening of his eyes, the weariness that had found its way into his expression. "It's really not," Greg said softly. Mycroft could tell that he wanted to do more, wanted to take Mycroft into his arms and hold him close until the silly notion went away. Not that Mycroft thought that he was the silly one - it was obviously Greg, and his notions of equal treatment. He realized he was babbling in his mind and abruptly shut down the train of thought. He was relieved when the food arrived and provided a much-needed distraction.

Mycroft eyed his burger with faint disdain. It seemed so messy. Carefully he slid off his jacket, folding it and setting it to the side. He rolled up his sleeves, deliberately ignoring Greg's eyes on him. For now it was best if Greg was only registered peripherally - Mycroft still wasn't certain what game the DI was playing. Was he just trying to catch Mycroft off guard? Or was he being honest? Mycroft didn't know.

Greg was grinning at him, Mycroft could sense it. He watched as Greg picked up his burger and bit into it, making a happy noise. "Perfect," Greg declared.

More cautiously (and quietly), Mycroft picked up his, biting into it. It was tasty, Greg was right - but it was messy as well. Mycroft scowled as sauce dripped onto the table. Abominable. "It is satisfactory," he agreed.

"It's better than that," Greg teased. "I can see it on your face."

Mycroft shot Greg a half-hearted glare. Setting down the burger, he cleaned his face off. He had a feeling he might need more serviettes than had been provided. "It is good, I shall concede that point. However, I do not enjoy wearing my food."

Greg laughed, biting into his food with gusto. "Live a little," he said, his smile wide. "It won't kill you."

Mycroft didn't know what to say, so instead he inclined his head, continuing to carefully navigate the treacherous realms of the messy burger. Gone was the comfortable silence that they had had so recently. Instead, it was replaced by a sizzling energy underneath Mycroft's skin, a careful weighing of every word that left Greg's lips, every expression that showed on his face. Mycroft’s fight-or-flight instinct was fully activated, his body prepped to run in the event that it was necessary. Anthea was on hand, after all, and she could get him out if absolutely necessary.

Not that it seemed to be necessary. Instead, Greg was smiling, happy. He was recounting work stories, seemingly not fazed by Mycroft's lack of response. A slight nod was taken for laughter, an inclined head for curiosity. All the nonverbal markers that Mycroft could not always control, not in their current environment. Greg could read him like no one else - something that Mycroft both appreciated and feared. Greg knew him, Greg - cared for him - but Greg could also destroy him. That was what Mycroft feared the most.

"Mycroft?" Greg's voice cut into Mycroft's thoughts. He lifted his head, startled.

"Yes?" he asked, attempting to mentally catch up on the minutes of conversation that he had missed.

"You okay?" Greg tilted his head. Mycroft was startled to realize that half of Greg's burger was gone. Not only had there been conversation that he had missed, but Greg had managed to eat his food without Mycroft noticing. "You haven't really touched your food."

Mycroft swallowed, trying to keep his expression neutral. "I apologize. A long day at work has left me slightly preoccupied."

Greg smiled, nodded. "Happens to me all the time," he assured Mycroft.

Something in Mycroft broke, just a little. How could Greg not see what he was doing, how being so kind was merely dragging out Mycroft's agony? "Why are you being kind?" he asked harshly, his food forgotten. Greg stared at Mycroft, startled. "How do you not understand that this is simply drawing out the pain, making it worse?"

"I don't - Mycroft, are you okay?" Greg looked closer at him, concerned.

Mycroft's breathing was ragged, his hands clenching into fists underneath the table. He felt like he was shaking. How could Greg do this to him? Mycroft deserved it, he deserved whatever was coming, and Greg would understand that. He would understand that it was okay to yell at Mycroft when he did something wrong, to berate him for his inability to feel, to express emotion. Greg was being unduly kind and Mycroft just wanted the facade to end. He wanted reality to come back. "I am fine."

Greg kept his distance, something Mycroft was grateful for. "Mycroft, of course I'm kind to you. Why wouldn't I be? I care for you, you git."

Mycroft let out a harsh chuckle, his hands unclenching, his body sagging suddenly. He felt old, defeated. "You say so."

"And I mean it," Greg said firmly.

"Someday caring will not be an advantage," Mycroft said, his eyes distant, focused on the wood behind Greg. "Someday you will grow tired of me, someday I will not be enough. I would rather we both accept the truth now, so that I can prepare myself for such an outcome."

Greg stared at him, his mouth open. Mycroft stared back. It was the truth, he knew it was. Still, he felt like his heart was breaking, like he was falling to pieces. Like the world as he knew it was falling apart and it would never be right again. Greg took a long drink of his soda, and set the glass down, staring at it. Mycroft sat, unmoving, waiting for Greg to speak, to confirm his thoughts. He was breaking, he was falling apart, but Greg did not notice. Greg did not care.

Standing, Greg came around to Mycroft's side of the table. He looked at Mycroft, his eyes intense. Mycroft stared back evenly. He would not back down, would not let Greg break him, not yet. Greg leaned in, cradling Mycroft's head with his hands, and kissed him, slow and sweet. Gentle and kind. A kiss so caring that Mycroft felt his resolve waver. Could he be wrong? Was it possible that Greg wasn't like that, that he was warmth and affection, all that Mycroft had been promised? "I love you, you git," Greg murmured, kissing him again. "I would never - ever - hurt you. I can't-" He stopped, struggling to find words. "I'm so sorry." He didn't let go of Mycroft's face, didn't move back. Instead, he pressed one more kiss to Mycroft's lips. "Call Anthea, have her come get you. I think we both need some time to think."

Mycroft watched as Greg let go. He watched Greg quickly weaved his way out of the pub, leaving Mycroft behind, alone. Mycroft looked at his water, numb. It was over, then. Everything that had been within his grasp had fallen apart. He berated himself for ever hoping that it would change. Mutely he looked up, not surprised to see Anthea standing there. Her eyes were warm, compassionate, and Mycroft did not bother with a smile. “Let’s get you home, Sir.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy. :)

Greg didn't know where he was going after he left the pub. Still, he wasn't surprised when he caught sight of the Yard ahead of him. Work. Work was safe, work was sane. He could cool down there until he no longer felt like shouting or punching a wall. All he could think about was Mycroft's first partner, how much he had hurt Mycroft. It hurt Greg to see Mycroft doubt himself like that. He roughly pushed the door open, going inside. It was late, and most people were gone for the day, including Sally. However, when he entered, his office wasn't empty.

"Hello," John said evenly, standing.

Greg froze. Oh god. "Tonight was pub night?" he asked, trying not to cringe. He and John went to the pub every other week, and apparently it had just slipped Greg's mind.

"Yes.” John seemed not at all bothered by Greg’s forgetfulness.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to throw something, wanted to get his anger out somehow. What else was he forgetting? What else had slipped his mind? God, no wonder Mycroft didn't want him. He was a fucking mess. "Sorry," Greg muttered, not making eye contact. He sank into his office chair.

"Something on your mind?" John asked blithely, sitting down in the chair on the other side of Greg's desk. He leaned back, looking at Greg with his quiet, unassuming calm.

Greg went back and forth. Did he say something? Not say something? "How's Sherlock?" he asked instead. Maybe that would be the way to go. He didn't want to talk about his relationship with Mycroft, not really. Especially not when there was a chance it would get back to Sherlock.

John's smile was slight. "Sleeping."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Sleeping?"

John inclined his head in confirmation. "Finally crashed after being up for the better part of four days."

Greg bit back a chuckle. "No sleeping meds in his tea?"

John winked. "You’re better off if you don’t know."

Greg smiled faintly. John had mentioned a bit about his relationship with Sherlock. There was a deep connection between the two of them. A quiet contentment that Greg saw on crime scenes whenever Sherlock showed up with John by his side. They moved comfortably around each other, as if there were no secrets. As if there was complete and utter trust. There could not have been a starker contrast between their relationship and Greg's with Mycroft if he had tried. "You two are good, then?"

John shrugged. "We have our good days and our bad." He looked back at Greg, his gaze steady. "Bit not good on your end?"

These were the times that Greg desperately wished that he still drank. Right now he would like nothing more than to drink a bottle of his favorite scotch and pass out, rather than sitting in his office and talking about feelings. "No." Greg let out a short laugh. "More than a bit not good."

"I think Sherlock's been a bit concerned," John said, seemingly nonchalant. "Mycroft hasn't shown up at Baker Street in nearly two weeks. It's a record."

Greg rubbed his forehead with a hand. "Things have been - rough." It wasn't the right word for it, but Greg wasn't sure there was a right word. Would they even make it past it?

"Mycroft's got a history." Greg looked at John to see him as unruffled as ever. His face was composed, his posture had not shifted. He seemed entirely unfazed by their discussion. "Sherlock does, too."

Greg winced at the thought. "Yeah, I - I was there one night, when Sherlock confronted Mycroft." He stared blankly at the far wall, thinking of the night he had hidden, just out of view. Listened to Mycroft talk about how it was his own fault that Jack was dead.

"It wasn't easy with Sherlock, not at first, not now," John said, his voice low. He didn't look at Greg, but just to the side of him. "It never will be easy. There will always be things lurking just under the surface. They like to hide things, pretend that they don't matter." John shook his head. "Is it over, between you two?"

Greg shook his head vehemently. "Not at all."

John looked at Greg, the corner of his lips quirking up into a smile. "Does he know that?"

Greg opened his mouth to say yes, of course - and it hit him. He had left Mycroft by himself. Mycroft, who would likely blame himself for everything that had transpired that night. "They're not very smart when it comes to emotions, are they?" he asked John.

John chuckled, standing, and shook his head. "Brilliant, but stupid." He gave Greg a clap on the shoulder. "Talk to him. We'll meet up in a couple weeks, yeah?"

Greg nodded. "Of course." He picked up his mobile, thumbing through his contacts until he found Mycroft's number. "John?"

The former army doctor stopped at the door, half-turning to see Greg. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

John smiled. "Good luck. You'll need it."

Greg gave a half-wave in farewell and turned back to his phone. Maybe he could salvage his evening after all.

-

Mycroft followed Anthea to the car. He didn’t look at her, didn’t look up, didn’t see anything. He felt numb, like a rug had been yanked out from underneath him, like nothing mattered. Nothing did matter. He had failed to be what Greg needed, what Greg wanted. He had failed someone who was supposed to care for him. Mycroft was not what he needed, what anyone needed.

In a way, Mycroft supposed, it was good that Greg had realized it early. He was certain that Greg’s time to think was simply an excuse for a prolonged absence that would end in a final separation. He wasn’t naive enough to think that Greg would actually come back.

Mycroft slid into the car, Anthea next to him, and turned his head slightly so he could stare out the window. Lights flickered in the corner of his vision, buildings going by as the car started to move. With little effort, he mapped out the route they took, every street that the car passed. “Tell the driver to continue driving,” he said, his voice sounding strange even to himself. Anthea obeyed without questioning why, although he could feel her eyes on him. It was a strange order, Mycroft could acknowledge, but he did not care.

Going home or to work felt like admitting defeat. Like acknowledging that his relationship was over, that there was nothing he could do to fix it. Acknowledging that Mycroft had failed to do what was necessary to be a human being. Caring was not an advantage, Mycroft had read somewhere, in some book. It had become his mantra after Jack had died. He had wrapped himself in it, protected himself with it. It had been all that mattered.

And then Greg had appeared and wormed his way into Mycroft’s life, into his heart, as much as Mycroft did not want to admit it. Greg’s warm demeanour was a facade, it always had been. Mycroft had loved an illusion, a fabrication. It wasn’t Greg’s fault, it was Mycroft’s. It was all he deserved, after all. If he was a better person, perhaps he would have deserved someone different. Instead, all Mycroft deserved was pain.

He did not know how long they had been driving when he was jolted out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled it out of his pocket, startled to see that it was Greg. He hung the phone up without answering. Greg would be angry, for his behavior at the pub, and Mycroft did not care to be yelled at.

Then the mobile rang again, and again. Mycroft stared down at it, his heart starting to race, hope threatening to sneak its way into his mind. He crushed it ruthlessly. It wasn’t what he deserved. Reality was stark and headed his direction. Greg was going to shout, be angry, and Mycroft was going to take it. “Hello?” He kept his voice as calm as possible. Regardless of what was coming his way, he didn’t want to aggravate Greg any more than was necessary.

“Mycroft?” Greg sounded relieved. Mycroft shifted on the seat, drawing Anthea’s further attention. He could see her watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Speaking.” Mycroft tilted his head slightly, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

“Mycroft, I’m not angry with you, I’m not upset, I’m not - god, I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you.” Greg said it all in a rush, as if he could not wait. As if he had been bottling it up for a long time. “I love you, you git. I love you to pieces. I left because I didn’t want to upset you.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He stared blankly at the divider between himself and his driver, blinked. What? It wasn’t what he expected, it wasn’t what he had anticipated. “Mycroft?” Greg said anxiously. “You there?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered out of habit. He felt like he had been catapulted into a world that made no sense, where up was down and down was up. “I do not understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” It wasn’t mocking, it wasn’t hateful. Instead, Greg sounded sad, like he wished he could be there. “I want to see you.”

Mycroft swallowed thickly. “Unfortunately I have a work engagement that -”

“Please?” Greg cut him off. “Please. We need to talk.”

“I - I suppose.” Mycroft acquiesced. “I would prefer that we pick a neutral ground for our meeting.” Too many memories at either of their homes. It would make sense for their final meeting to take place somewhere that was not important to either of them.

“We could meet at the Yard, maybe, or that warehouse, the one that you kidnapped me to that one time, or-”

Mycroft did not hear the rest of Greg’s sentence, he didn’t hear the car coming that smashed into the side of his vehicle. All he felt was a sudden jolt, an impact - he heard the driver scream - and then everything went black.

-

When Mycroft opened his eyes, he did not recognise where he was. Frowning, he glanced around. IV pole, monitoring equipment. Gown instead of his beloved suit. He was in a hospital. There was a short, brown-haired woman standing in front of a computer near the entrance to the room. “Where am I?” he managed, aware his voice sounded hoarse.

“Hospital,” he heard Anthea say from behind the curtain. He couldn’t see her, a fact he found oddly disconcerting. She stood and pulled the curtain back, then settled carefully on her bed. “Another car slammed into ours. You were rendered unconscious, but I was awake.”

“Is the driver safe?” Mycroft asked, careful with his words. Speaking was oddly tricky, and his mind felt fuzzy, as if he was thinking through a wall of cotton.

“Bit shook up, but safe.” Anthea shrugged, wincing as she did so. “I’ve got a broken arm. We’re country-bound for the next four, six weeks at least.”

“I could go without you,” he argued. She raised her eyebrows, not having it. “I am certain there is enough paperwork and meetings here to keep us suitably occupied for your recuperation.”

“I’m certain that’ll be about as thrilling as it sounds,” she muttered. One corner of Mycroft’s lips tugged upwards in a semblance of a smile.

He shifted, trying to sit up, and winced. “Doctor says you likely have a concussion and a small rib fracture or two. Few weeks for you before you’re back to normal.” Anthea sounded nonchalant, and Mycroft glared at her. “I wasn’t the one who hit you with a car, don’t glare at me.”

Mycroft didn’t snort, that was undignified. But he certainly rolled his eyes to demonstrate exactly what he felt about Anthea’s words. At least she looked as indignified as he did. “I refuse to wear this ghastly clothing outside of this room,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows.

“Replacement clothes and mobiles are on the way for both of us,” she said.

Mycroft froze. Mobile. Greg. He had been on the phone with Greg when the car had hit them, Greg had heard it all - he felt his heart drop to the floor. Greg was going to be angry, Greg was going to be upset. It was Mycroft’s fault, it always was.

His attention was drawn by shouting outside, and he narrowed his eyes. An assassination attempt wasn’t likely, not after last Tuesday. Sherlock wouldn’t dare make such an undignified ruckus, not on Mycroft’s behalf. Who was it?

The door open and Mycroft stared as Greg came in, grumbling to the curly-haired woman behind him about uncooperative hospital personnel. He turned and saw Mycroft, shutting up and staring at him, frozen. The woman who Mycroft vaguely recognised as Sally Donovan went over to Anthea’s bed, wrapping her arms around Anthea and holding her tight.

For a moment Mycroft felt a flash of envy. He wished it was like that with Greg, that they had that easy comfort, the care between the two of them palpable to anyone that saw them. But it wasn’t, and that didn’t matter. Mycroft didn’t deserve it, anyway. When he looked up, Greg was closer to him, but not within his space. He seemed hesitant, afraid. Mycroft looked away, conscious of how ridiculous he looked in his hospital garb. He smoothed the sheet over his lap. “I apologize for inconveniencing you,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Your presence is not necessary.” His heart broke as he said every word, but he pushed it to the side. Later. He could deal with such an inconvenience later. “You do not owe me anything, especially after-”

He was cut off by Greg’s lips against his. It was awkward, too close, and Mycroft’s head thundered in protest. Greg took Mycroft’s face into his hands, carefully, gingerly, as if Mycroft would break if Greg applied too much pressure. “I’m sorry,” Greg murmured, kissing Mycroft again. Mycroft didn’t look at him, he couldn’t look at him. His stomach was roiling and he felt like he was going to be sick. The world was too much, everything was too much - what was Greg doing, why was he doing it - it didn’t make any sense, why, _make it stop._

Greg let go, and Mycroft became aware of how his muscles had seized up, how tense he had become. His breath was fast and shaky, his body out of his control. He hated this, hated how little he could control his own reactions. That was why he had started drinking in the first place. It toned down the panic reactions, enabled him to mute them completely. “I don’t understand,” Mycroft said, hating how he sounded. Pathetic. Useless. Desperate. Worthless. Undeserving.

“Can I sit on the bed?” Greg asked, his voice quiet, unassuming. Mycroft heard the underlying question, heard the can-I-stay-or-should-I-go.

Mycroft said nothing either way. He wasn’t certain, not yet. So Greg settled onto the side of the bed, close enough to see Mycroft and make eye contact without unduly disrupting him. “You’re okay,” Greg whispered, mostly to himself. He searched Mycroft’s eyes, looked him up and down, looking for any obvious injuries. “God, you’re okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away from Mycroft and towards the side of the room. “When I - when I heard the call, about the car, I didn’t - god.” Greg swallowed thickly. “Anthea called Sally, told her where they were taking you. And - we came.”

Mycroft watched as Greg crumpled, as he covered his face with a hand. “God, you wouldn’t have even been in that car if I hadn’t - this is my fault.”

Mycroft’s heart thudded in his chest as he saw the tears leak from Greg’s eyes, saw how upset he was. All Mycroft wanted to do was hold him, make it better, but it wasn’t that simple - was it? Tentatively, ignoring the IV in his hand, he reached out, touched Greg’s arm. Greg lifted his head, looked at Mycroft, and wrapped his arms around him. Tighter than was entirely physically pleasant, but it was emotionally satisfactory. Mycroft shifted within Greg’s grasp, careful to adjust for his frail physical state as well as the line in his wrist. He cautiously wrapped an arm around Greg’s waist, accommodating the pain from the broken ribs. It was the first time he had hugged someone in quite some time and he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about it.

“It is not your fault.” Mycroft did not know why he was talking, but he plunged forward anyway. It wasn’t Greg’s fault, and Greg needed to know that. “You could not have known that there would be a crash. You are not responsible for this.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” Greg said, chuckling as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “You tell me this isn’t my fault but exactly how much of the blame are you taking on?”

Mycroft stiffened, ignoring the stab of pain in his chest. “It is none of your business, but it is my fault and-”

“It’s not, though.” Greg gently cupped Mycroft’s cheek with his hand, kissed him softly, slowly. “It’s not.”

Mycroft stared at him, doubtful. Of course it was. Wasn’t it? And why wasn’t Greg angry? Greg was not furious, he was not mad, he was in no way perturbed by Mycroft’s behavior. It was incredibly disconcerting. It made no logical sense. “I do not understand,” he said finally. He met Greg’s eyes and regretted it, regretted seeing the warmth there, the caring, the compassion. There was no anger, there was no hatred, no resentment. Just love.

His resolve shattered, he shattered, and he looked away, feeling oddly vulnerable. He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t deal with it. It did not slot neatly into the worldview that he had ascribed to for many years. “It isn’t going to be easy,” Greg murmured, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “Things that are worth it rarely are.”

Mycroft said nothing, but leaned into Greg’s touch, into his hold, and his forehead touched Greg’s shoulder. Maybe it would work out. Maybe they would make it. “Okay.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the last chapter. :) The next one will be a cute/fluffy/sexy epilogue. It's been a really long road, and I am so thankful for all of you who stood by this and have loved this fic as much as I have! The epilogue will be up in about two weeks.

“Is there someone that can be with you tonight?” the doctor asked, professional enough to not look at Greg. “I don’t think you have a concussion, but I’d rather have someone keeping an eye on you just in case.” Mycroft hesitated, glancing over at Anthea. His assistant was laying on her hospital bed, Sally by her side. They had already been there for three hours. Hopefully they would get to go home soon.

“He does. I’ll stay.” Greg glanced from the doctor to Mycroft, met his eyes. “If that’s okay with you.”

Mycroft looked at Greg, startled for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. ”Yes.” His alternative was staying overnight, on his own. Dr. Erickson would insist. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, not when he could be home - with Greg.

The doctor smiled. “Good. The nurse has discontinued your IV. You’ll be sore for a few days, and those ribs will take a few weeks to heal. Take paracetamol as needed. Don’t bind your chest - it’ll constrict your breathing. Be careful, don’t strain yourself. You do need to cough, however, or you risk chest infection.” He eyed Mycroft. “At least three days off from work. Preferably a week.”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Greg promised. He glanced at Mycroft, and then back at the physician. “Anything else?”

The doctor shook his head. “A nurse will be here in a few moments to have you sign the paperwork, then you’re free to go.”

“What about her?” Mycroft nodded towards Anthea.

“I’ll discharge her next,” the doctor assured him. Mycroft relaxed somewhat. As much as he could in the situation, anyway.

“Thanks.” Greg smiled at the doctor and turned back to Mycroft.

Mycroft watched the doctor move to Anthea’s bed. Greg’s hand found his, and carefully Mycroft twined their fingers together. Greg’s hand was warm, reassuring - the gesture was more comforting than Mycroft had anticipated. This time, he didn’t see Jack, didn’t think of him. It was Greg, just Greg, that occupied Mycroft’s mind. Memories were memories - some were meant to be forgotten. “Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg glanced at him, surprised. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand, gentle. “I love you, Mycroft. This is what you do for someone when you love them. You be there when they need you.”

Mycroft’s stomach rebelled and for a second he thought he was going to be sick. He couldn’t tell if it was guilt or a side-effect of the dulled pain in his head. “I - my occupation does not allow for much frivolous time.”

Greg smiled. “Neither does mine. Two workaholics, we are.”

Mycroft glanced at him, uncertain, and cautiously smiled. Greg seemed delighted, for his smile widened and he leaned in and kissed Mycroft on the cheek. “Your place or mine?” Greg asked.

It was something Mycroft hadn’t considered. Before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. “It’s clothing,” Anthea said from her side of the room as one of Mycroft’s drivers appeared in the doorway carrying two clothing bags. One he took to Anthea, handing it to Sally. The other he took to Greg.

“I hope the clothing is satisfactory, Sir and Ma’am,” he said politely.

Greg unzipped the bag so that Mycroft could see. “Yes, thank you,” Mycroft said with a slight incline of his head. “I trust that Charles has recovered sufficiently?”

“Yes, Sir.” The driver nodded.

“See to it that he takes a few weeks off until his nerves are recovered.” Mycroft looked at Anthea, at their surroundings. “It wasn’t his fault, but I’d rather he get some time off anyway.”

The driver glanced at Mycroft for confirmation. Mycroft nodded, smiling his fake smile. “Good night, Joseph.”

“Good night, Sir and Ma’am.” The driver tilted his head and moved to the door. “Isaac will be waiting downstairs.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft turned to Greg, to the bag, not paying attention as the driver left. “I hope you will not mind if I excuse myself to dress?”

Greg seemed to consider this for a moment. Mycroft frowned - did Greg see him as a child? “Are you sure you can dress yourself, like this?”

Mycroft frowned. “Of course I can.”

“Close the curtain,” Anthea recommended from her bed. She hadn’t moved, but Sally was laying out the outfit on the bed. “We can dress over here, you over there. Don’t be stupid, Mycroft. Accept his help.”

Mycroft glared at her. “Insolence,” he muttered. Anthea smirked as Sally stood and pulled the curtain around the beds.

Greg laid out the suit and accompanying accessories at the foot of the bed. “Are you sure you want to wear all of this?” Greg asked, keeping his voice low but loud enough to be heard over Anthea and Sally. “You’re going home and going straight to bed.”

“How entertaining,” Mycroft said wryly.

Greg took a deep breath. “I’ll sleep in the same room, if that helps at all.”

Mycroft swallowed thickly, fighting rising panic and a return of the thudding in his head. “I do not - I do not know,” he managed.

“We’ll figure it out when we get home. Your place,” Greg decided. He gently helped Mycroft swing his legs around. “Let’s do this, we’ll skip the rest.” He grabbed a loose pair of slacks and a comfortable-looking shirt with buttons up the front. Mycroft hesitated, then nodded.

Mycroft did as much work as he could, but he got stabbing pains in his chest whenever he bent down and he felt old and achey. It was much like last time Greg had stayed over, after he and Anthea had gotten injured while working. “Thank you for your assistance,” Mycroft said quietly, once he had settled back on the bed. He was out of breath and sorer than he had been before, but at least he was out of the ridiculous hospital gown.

Greg smiled and settled back in his chair. All that was left was for the nurse to come and - the small brown-haired woman who had been there when Mycroft first woke up bustled into the room, a sheaf of papers in her hands. “I’m here with the discharge papers,” she told Mycroft.

“These are merely a formality, I assume?” he asked as he put them on his lap, reading them intently.

“Essentially,” she said. “The doctor should have discussed everything with you, but if you have any questions please, let me know.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft signed the papers quickly without flourish, handing them back to the nurse.

“It is policy to ride out in a wheelchair,” she began, stopping at the look on Mycroft’s face.

“I’ll walk him out,” Greg said before the nurse could say anything else.

Mycroft looked at him, smiled slightly. “The car downstairs is for us,” he said.

“I’m taking Anthea in my car.” Sally poked her head around the curtain. “Ready to go?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft then nodded. “After you,” he said to Mycroft with a teasing bow.

-

It was far longer than Mycroft would have liked before he was inside his home. He felt safe there, some of the prickling anxiety easing from his body. Not much - after all, Greg was a half-step behind him. “Do you want to sleep?”

Mycroft tensed and hissed, his already sore muscles protesting from the stress.

“Or not.” Greg hesitated, and then gently wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

Mycroft closed his eyes, leaning into Greg’s touch. Breathed in, breathed out. Focused on the warmth of Greg’s touch, on the way it comforted him. The good things. Those were what mattered. “I apologize.”

Greg hugged him gently. “None of that.”

Mycroft turned slightly to look at him. No apologies? “Why not?”

Greg shifted slightly, wrapping his arms more fully around Mycroft. It felt - oddly natural. Mycroft could relax into it, his head on Greg’s shoulder. He inhaled deeply. Greg smelled - good, after being in the hospital. And probably normally. Maybe Mycroft would have to run an experiment about that. Later, when he wasn’t loopy.

“Because I love you.”

The word, that word, still sent shivers down Mycroft’s spine. It hurt, it healed. “I don’t like that word.”

Greg kissed the side of his head, gentle. “Do you want me to stop saying it?”

Mycroft considered it, for a moment. What it would be like, never hearing that word again. Never feeling the slight shiver, feel the surge in their bond. It was strange, how much power words had. “No.”

Greg chuckled. Mycroft sagged slightly against him, exhaustion finally taking over. Greg caught him gently. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Mycroft nodded, too tired to speak. Exhaustion was like that, for him. He could go for days and days, and then once things finally became too much, he stopped functioning. His brain felt fuzzy, his body sore all over. His ribs ached.

Together they made their way upstairs. This time, it didn’t bother Mycroft that Greg came in his bedroom. It wasn’t - magical. It didn’t feel special. No fireworks. Instead it just felt normal. Like it was an everyday experience.

They stopped just inside, and Mycroft looked at him. Thoughts were hard. Greg shook his head. Mycroft frowned, forced himself to focus on Greg. “Wh?” Words were too much effort.

Greg’s face softened, and he smiled. “You’re not sleeping in those.”

Mycroft considered his clothes. “Oh.”

Greg chuckled, gently maneuvering Mycroft to the point he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips, turned and went to his wardrobe. Mycroft watched, alarm bells going off in his head but he didn’t know why. Greg moved things around, and then - stopped. Mycroft frowned.

Oh.

Greg turned around, and there were pyjamas in his hands and sadness on his face. Mycroft stared at him, tried to puzzle it out. Why was he sad? They were home. He was tired. Sleep sounded better than ever. “Here, let me help you.” Greg’s voice was soft, and his hands were gentle. It was - almost scary, being so vulnerable. But Mycroft was so tired that he did not care.

“I love you,” Greg murmured, kissing Mycroft once more as he went to hang up the various bits of Mycroft’s suit.

Mycroft stared at him, brain fuzzy. What did that mean? What was that for? All of the mental acuity he was known for had just faded away. He moved his jaw, tried words, but they were just sounds. Nothing substantial. It was frustrating, to say the least.

“Bedtime.” Greg smiled. He, too, had changed. Mycroft wondered where had had gotten the clothes. Anthea, probably. She was magic.

He winced, made a soft noise of protest, as he laid down. As Greg helped him. His ribs creaked, and he hurt. But eventually he was on his back, Greg by his side. Their hands were together, fingers twined. It made the world easier to tolerate, made things less scary. It felt natural, like it was something they had been doing forever.

With a soft, sleepy sigh, Mycroft fell asleep.

-

By the time Mycroft woke up, light was shining into his bedroom. He made a sleepy noise, groaned, and tried to bury his head into the nearest surface. A surface which protested just as much as Mycroft’s ribs did. “Oi.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat, then slowed down as memories of the night before flashed through his mind. Oh. Greg. Reluctantly he moved away from Greg.

“Didn’t mean you couldn’t have a cuddle.” Greg turned to look at him, a smile on his face.

Mycroft’s ribs complained, yet he turned anyway. Greg looked even better freshly awake. His hair was tousled from sleep. Mycroft was quite fond of him, he had to admit. He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by his stomach’s rumble. He frowned.

“Breakfast, then a cuddle.” Greg turned to grab his mobile off of the side table, glancing at the time. Mycroft watched him move. He was quite handsome. Greg looked up to see him looking. “Like what you see?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Mycroft couldn’t help a blush. He didn’t act like this. He was dignified. Yet, Greg was special. He was different. “I am hungry.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, before he realized what he meant. “Oh. No.” His face deepened. It was probably the medication he was on. Painkillers were worse than alcohol, in his experience. Greg’s face changed back to his grin, carefree and light. Mycroft felt something in his chest loosen, something change. A small seed of trust was starting to build, to take root.

Greg stood, walked around to Mycroft’s side, and extended a hand. There was a lot offered in that hand - a lot of dreams, a lot of hope. Mycroft studied it for a few moments, considered. Then sat up and took Greg’s hand, accepted what it meant. It wouldn’t be easy. But he could do it, he thought. They could do it.

As Greg helped him up, helped him down the stairs, for the first time Mycroft found himself craving his touch - and not flinching away. Greg came without a price, his love freely given. The thought made Mycroft’s stomach churn, but it filled him with warmth, too. Every time Greg’s hand touched his skin, brushed his shoulder, or wrapped gently around his middle, it made Mycroft’s stomach flutter. He felt whole, complete. Like there had been a missing part of him that only Greg could fill.

“You okay?” Greg asked, seemingly amused with Mycroft’s distractions. Mycroft looked at him, considering. It was an unlikely topic to discuss over breakfast, an unlikely declaration following such an event. But it seemed right.

“I am quite fond of you,” Mycroft managed, and he hoped that Anthea was not watching the feed from his house and laughing at his inability to express himself. She was probably recording it for posterity. Bastard.

Greg regarded him with mild humour, still standing near. He leaned down, pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Wrapped an arm around him, held him close. “I’m fond of you too.”

Mycroft didn’t let go of him, ignoring the pain as his ribs creaked. This was more important than his body, more important than his physical limits. He had to tell him, had to let Greg know. He couldn’t keep him in the dark any longer.

Greg seemed to pause, looking down at him with mild concern on his face. “Do you need some painkil-”

“I love you.” The words felt like sandpaper on Mycroft’s tongue, gritty and harsh, but they were the truth. They were what had been lurking in his mind ever since he had ended up in the hospital, ever since Greg had fought to be there. Had taken him home, had loved him.

Greg had gone still, had not moved. Mycroft wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. Was that a bad sign? Probably.

“Oh.” Greg blinked, coming back to himself. He looked down at Mycroft, studying his face. What was he looking for? Sincerity? Signs of duplicity? Mycroft just looked back at him, ignoring his heart hammering in his chest, or the way his ribs creaked as his lungs expanded. Pain was temporary. Greg was forever.

Greg leaned down, kissed him again. It was gentle, it was sweet. “I love you too.”

Mycroft wasn’t quite sure what to do with those words. Part of him felt like jumping off a cliff, part of him felt like the world had exploded - in a good way. Logically he had known, had expected them. Greg had said such things before.

But - emotionally was a different matter. It would not be easy, not be perfect. Things seldom were. How many work situations had he been involved with that had gone sideways with little provocation?

“Oh,” Mycroft said, as it was his turn to be uncertain. To consider. Greg kissed him again, stroked his shoulder. It wasn’t exactly sexy, in Mycroft’s opinion, but he also hurt too much to consider - that. Maybe in a week. Maybe two weeks. Whenever it didn’t hurt.

“Now, what do you want for breakfast?” Greg asked, moving away and into the kitchen. Mycroft looked at him, somewhat surprised. The world was moving on, moving forward. It had not ended when Mycroft had said goodbye to one life and hello to another.

“Whatever you want to make,” Mycroft said, his voice soft. Greg flashed him a cheeky smile, one that made Mycroft feel warm inside, and turned back to the kitchen.

It would not be easy, but it would be worth it.


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is it...the epilogue - and what earned this fic its E rating! It's been a long, bumpy road, but I hope you guys enjoy this. :)

It had been three months since Mycroft had come home from the hospital and Greg had simply not left. He had given Mycroft absolutely no indication that he was leaving, had not done more than go to work and come back. Essentially he had simply moved in without any notice. Mycroft had considered calling Anthea, having her employ a crew to make the move official. Anthea had stopped that plan with a raised eyebrow.

He knew there was a reason he hired her.

For the first time in a week, Mycroft was home first. Greg would not get off his shift for another hour, would not be home for thirty minutes more. It was strange, in a way. Mycroft was no longer used to having a significant amount of time to himself. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

He stood in the kitchen, glanced around, then headed upstairs. At the very least he could change out of his suit, change into something more comfortable. After Greg had looked in the wardrobe he had suggested they go shopping together. For casual clothes. It had been far more pleasant than Mycroft had expected.

He stood in front of his wardrobe, sighed, and opened it. He picked out jeans, a comfy shirt, and lingered. Underneath his folded clothes was the note, the suicide note. His baggage. He sat aside the clothes, picked up the note, studied it. Read the familiar words, felt a small flash of guilt - and an even larger wave of relief that the man who wrote it was gone.

Part of that made him feel even more guilty. How could he be relieved over the death of someone else, someone who had loved him at some point? But Jack was long gone, long dead - and he had someone new in his life. Wasn’t it okay to move on, to put the past behind him?

His hands lingered over the tattered edges of the note, smoothed them out. It was wrinkled from reading it so many times. Fragile, almost. He picked it up, considered it. Then ripped it in half, ignoring the flash of cold that went through his body. Fear, guilt. Another rip, then another. Until the once-revered note was small pieces of paper scattered all around the carpet.

It was over. The past was gone, shredded as efficiently as the shards of paper that surrounded him. Jack’s memory would linger, remain - but Mycroft would no longer allow it to control who he was and who he loved.

It was an odd sense of freedom, a sense of relief, of joy. It was something he had never felt before and wasn’t quite sure what to do with. He swallowed, and bent down. As nice as it had been, now he had to clean it up.

“Let me help.” Greg’s voice startled Mycroft, and he nearly tipped over from his bent position. He had gone tense, jolted - for a second he felt like he was a naughty child that had been caught doing something wrong. Then he relaxed, nodded, and continued to pick up the pieces.

As close as he had gotten to Greg, eye contact in this case still felt too intimate. Too much. In tearing that note up he had bared a part of his soul that had not seen light in so long, and it felt oddly raw to let Greg see it. Mycroft hated vulnerability, hated the part of him that still tensed whenever memories flashed through his mind, unbidden. But it was easier, with Greg there.

They picked up the pieces of paper, and Mycroft was under no illusions that Greg did not know what Mycroft had destroyed. He knew but he said nothing, and for that Mycroft was thankful. Still, as Mycroft extended his hands for Greg’s share of the paper pieces, he could not lift his head. Instead he stared at Greg’s hands, at their familiar shape. Thought about how warm Greg’s hands felt when they were pressed against his skin, holding him, touching him.

A flare of heat ran through him as Greg’s hand brushed his. Mycroft swallowed, but distracted himself by turning and taking the paper to the bin. His hands cupped above it, he hesitated. Just a moment, but it was enough. He felt Greg’s arm wrap around him, let Greg pull him gently until Mycroft’s back was pressed against Greg’s chest. He wasn’t alone. He would never be alone again.

Mycroft took a deep breath and let go of the shreds of paper, watched them land in the bin, never to be looked at again. He felt Greg’s lips on the back of his neck, felt him rest his chin on his shoulder. Felt the synchronicity of their breaths, of their heartbeats. For a moment, the two of them were one. It made him dizzy, made him shiver. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly.

Greg held him closer for a moment, then loosened his arm. Mycroft puzzled for a moment, then Greg nudged him, and he turned. Greg was looking at him, unguarded, his eyes soft. Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat at the look in Greg’s eyes. It was complicated, as human nature always was, but there was pride, need, and an unmistakable warmth. He wanted Mycroft, he needed him, just as much as Mycroft did.

“You’re home early,” Mycroft said, and for a moment his nerves betrayed him. He glanced away, but didn’t move. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. And moving was the last thing on his mind.

There was a gentle touch on his chin, and Greg’s hand moved until Mycroft lifted his head to meet his eyes. It was nerve-wracking, it was terrifying, but there was a rightness about it that had not been there before. Greg leaned down, kissed him. It wasn’t a hurried kiss, but a slow one, one that promised Mycroft the world. This time, there were fireworks. Mycroft’s world exploded, imploded, and he leaned into Greg.

“I wanted to see you,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft studied him for a moment, reassuring himself, and this time, he didn’t look away. Greg had seen all of him, knew everything. There was nothing he needed to hide, not from Greg. And this time, both of them knew that.

“Oh.” It was the most ineloquent of expressions, the most obvious of statements. But it made Greg smile, made Mycroft’s stomach churn as butterflies fluttered inside him. He knew what Greg’s eyes promised, knew what the arm around him was likely to turn into. It wasn’t entirely new - Mycroft and Jack had been together in the happy times, after all - but Greg wasn’t Jack. He was himself, and it promised to be an entirely different experience. One that both terrified and thrilled Mycroft from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Greg shifted, claimed Mycroft’s lips again, and this time started them moving. It was a slow dance, step by step, until Mycroft felt the back of his legs touch the bed. He had no time to be nervous, no time to worry. Not with Greg kissing him like that, anyway. Then Greg slowed, the kisses turning longer, warmer, as his hands went to Mycroft’s clothes. The suit he still wore, casual clothes discarded near the wardrobe without ever being worn. Oops.

“Let me help,” Mycroft murmured, his fingers slipping in under Greg’s and undoing his jacket. Greg let him get away with that, then shook his head. Mycroft’s fingers stilled, the kisses stopped, and he looked at Greg with inquisitive eyes.

Greg’s smile was borderline wicked, and his gaze was focused on Mycroft, on his clothes, as he slowly, torturously, undid Mycroft’s vest, then his shirt. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Mycroft shivered. Greg’s fingers were touching bare skin now, fingertips trailing down his abdomen, leaving trails of fire in their path. His hands lingered on the top of Mycroft’s slacks. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Mycroft managed. He wanted to sound unaffected, in control, but that wasn’t happening. Not with Greg this close, his eyes smouldering like they were. Mycroft felt lucky to be standing.

“You first,” Greg said, his voice gentle, chiding. He undid Mycroft’s slacks, slid them down so he was left in just his boxers. Greg’s hand ghosted over Mycroft’s erection, and Mycroft inhaled sharply. Yes, much better than he had expected.

Mycroft stepped out of his clothes. He was still wearing his socks, which felt a bit odd. Maybe once Greg took off his clothes he could take them off. Were socks sexy? He sort of doubted it.

Greg leaned forward, kissed him, pressed his clothed body against Mycroft’s, and for a fleeting moment all thought fled Mycroft’s head. No snarky thoughts, no nerves, no distance - just him and Greg, two people twined as one.

Then Greg pulled back, undressing himself as quick as Mycroft had ever seen a person do so. And Anthea was pretty quick. Just a few moments, and Greg was pressed against him as if he had never been gone. Both were clad in just their boxers - well, and Mycroft’s socks, apparently Greg had taken his off but not Mycroft’s - but thought soon faded from Mycroft’s mind, socks or otherwise, when Greg started kissing his neck.

It felt like time stood still, like the world had started and ended at the same time in a fiery explosion. He felt dizzy, intoxicated. Like he never wanted what was happening to end, never wanted to be separated from Greg ever again. He had his hands on Greg’s hips, teasing the hem of his boxers, wanting the last thing that separated them to be gone.

“Impatient,” Greg murmured, and instead of blushing, instead of being nervous, Mycroft let a smile slide across his face. Greg huffed, kissed him, and then shifted slightly so Mycroft’s fingertips slid under the hem of his pants. It took Mycroft a second, then he slid them down, careful. Greg’s cock was about the same size as his, a little bit thicker, maybe a touch shorter. Mycroft wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it felt rude to not look at what was offered.

Greg shifted, hooking his fingers in Mycroft’s boxers and dropping down until he was at face-level with Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft watched him with wide eyes, biting his lip out of nervous habit. Greg pulled the pants down a bit, kissed his hip bones. Then took them off - and his socks, thankfully.

“I was worried about those,” Mycroft said. It was probably the wrong thing to say during sex, but he didn’t really care.

Greg laughed, and then gently nudged him. “Lay down.”

Mycroft hesitated, but it was just for a moment. His nerves sung through his body, and he felt like he was on fire. It was more than just sex, they both knew it, and the significance of it hung in the air, heavy between them. He laid back on the bed, trying to not feel self-conscious as Greg swept him up and down with his warm eyes.

“Hello,” Mycroft said, as Greg settled over him. Their bodies were pressed together from mid-chest to thigh, and Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as Greg’s cock slid against his. The friction made his insides melt, made his head spin. Greg kissed him, hungry, devouring. His arms held him up, Mycroft’s went to Greg’s hips, holding them close together, as Greg slid against them.

“Oh fuck,” Greg hissed as he rolled his hips, sliding them together. It felt like too much, felt like Mycroft’s head was spinning, like he was going to blank out. He held tighter to Greg like a lifeline, like his only link to the real world. In a way, he was. He moaned as Greg did it again, and again, and again. He formed no coherent thought, no nerves, no nothing - everything was pure sensation.

“Do it again,” Mycroft demanded when Greg stilled. Greg huffed out a laugh, kissed him, and rolled his hips again, and again, until Mycroft was again drowning in sensation. There was the slick heat from their cocks rubbing against each other, the warmth from their bodies pressed together, from their kiss - the overwhelming warmth sent him flying, sent him spiraling, like he would never come back to Earth.

Over and over they moved together, soft noises lost in the heat as their bodies slid together. Finally it was too much. The heat built up, like a series of waves crashing against the beach, until Mycroft moaned as he came, his fingers digging into Greg’s hips until the knuckles were white. Greg’s breath sounded ragged, his head pressed to Mycroft’s shoulder as Mycroft came down from his high, as Greg slid against him one, two, three more times until he came with a shudder.

Instead of collapsing on Mycroft, he slid to the side, much of his body still in contact with Mycroft. Mycroft liked it that way, having him close. Even though they were now both - sticky. They would have to clean that at some point. Eventually. When they felt like moving.

“I love you,” Greg murmured, nosing a kiss to the side of Mycroft’s head.

Mycroft stilled for a moment, his heart overwhelmed with all that he was feeling. There were so many complicated emotions, so many twists and turns, that it was difficult to sort out everything that related to Greg. It was hard to explain a myriad. “Love you too,” he said, his voice soft. It was only the second time he had said it, verbalized what he carried with him.

Greg kissed him again, and Mycroft could feel his smile. It warmed his heart, when Greg smiled. Made him feel special, like he was the only one that mattered. It was like Jack, but not - and Mycroft was okay with that. Greg was Greg, and that was all Mycroft ever wanted him to be.

“We should shower,” Greg said with mild distaste, lifting his head for a second to look down at the mess between them. Mycroft copied him, wrinkling his nose. It would get sticky soon, and then dry, and neither of them wanted that.

“I have a big shower,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice innocent.

Greg looked at him, a sparkle in his eyes. His grin was wicked, and it thrilled Mycroft. “Big enough for two?”

“I think we can manage.” Mycroft smiled back at him, trying to show what he thought, what he felt, in that single smile.

Then Greg’s hand was on his, helping him up. Naked, hand-in-hand, they walked into Mycroft’s bathroom. They were together, and that was as it would always be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for where I'm going next...well, I'm moving to a new name and a new tumblr. As amazing as iolre has been to me, I want to restart my tenancy here under a new name.
> 
> So for the foreseeable future, you can find me [here on tumblr](http://ryimo.tumblr.com/), and [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryimo/works). The new name is Ryimo. I don't have anything posted there yet, but I'll have a chapter 1 (Mystrade, then a Sherstrade) up next week. I'll also be posting about it on my current iolre blog before it goes back to being quiet.
> 
> Thank you all for taking the time to read this through to to the end, and I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this journey as much as I did.


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